Pegasus 2020 by BergenPR

B E R G E N

C O M M U N I T Y

C O L L E G E

pegasus 2020 400 Paramus Road, Paramus, New Jersey 07652 (201) 447-7100 • www.bergen.edu

BERGEN COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL WRITING CONTEST SPONSORED BY THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT

PREFACE

hen the history of the early 21st century is written, the year 2020 will stand out because of the profound disruption caused in our lives by the worldwide coronavirus pandemic and the lockdown that followed it. It is cold comfort to note that many plagues have afflicted mankind down through the ages and that great writers, from Thucydides to Albert Camus, have commented on its devastating impact on our sense of mortality, anxiety level, supply-chain and the economy, and the conduct of everything from education, to the performing arts, religion, and commerce. In A Journal of the Plague Year [1722], Daniel Defoe, by common consent the first novelist in English, observed the terror of the people of London, the shutting up of the infected, the rumbling of “dead-carts” through the streets, the closing down of trade, the boredom of quarantine, the flight of the rich from the city, and fear of another outbreak. He also mentions the uselessness of official pronouncements, such as Sir Robert Walpole’s unpopular Quarantine Act [1721], which made it mandatory for all ships to undergo embargo and for the infected to be confined in “lazarettes,” under penalty of death if they tried to escape. Long before Defoe, Boccaccio, in The Decameron [1348], accurately describes “the sorrowful effects” of a deadly pestilence on the populace of Florence. He details the progress of the disease [bubonic plague] on the human body, the uselessness of medical and legal prescriptions, an obsession with hand-washing and sanitation, and the desperate partying of those driven to rebellion by fear and sequestration. More recently, John Barry, in The Great Influenza [1999, 2006], reminds us that much of what America is enduring today it endured 100 years ago, but happily there have been some positive developments in the last century. Yes, the people are still fed outrageous disinformation; and, yes, lies and political weaponization of the epidemic still characterize the press and bureaucrats from the bottom to the top of the system, but we now know the cause of the disease, we have some hope of containing it, and no one, not even fanatics, is suggesting we offer up blood sacrifices or send hordes of flagellants into the streets to appease the anger of the gods. Turning to the submissions to this year’s Writing Contest provided our readers and directors with relief in the early stages of the present lockdown. Thankfully, these essays, poems, stories, and plays were written and gathered just before the pandemic broke. They reminded us of the norm to which we shall return, sadder and wiser, once this catastrophe passes. The high quality of these pieces provided much needed distraction. And, while we regret the cancellation of the awards brunch, we take heart at the thought that these efforts will be published online—for the first time—next year. Each of the genres offers gems of high school students’ writing at it best. Because of the many skills it requires, playwriting has always been especially challenging. Yet Pegasus 2020 presents four memorable plays. In David Bergstein’s Big Day, Lindsey Polevov depicts several recognizable comic stereotypes, but then, charmingly, she insinuates that a character with the initials G. O. D. is always present in human events, however quotidian. Jacob Makofske, in Hero Man, shows that a fraud and loser can rise to the occasion and assume the mantle of a real hero—a necessary anodyne in these absurdist days. Amelie Caceres’s When the Levee Breaks cleverly concatenates illusion and reality, recalling Shakespeare’s All’s Well that Ends Well. In the first prize winner in drama, A Conversation with the Stranger, Brandon Hwang dramatizes, in a haunting way, a problem with which more young people will be confronted as the 21st century unfolds: the heart-breaking effects of Alzheimer’s disease on our grandparents and parents. Sometimes our fiction-writers astound us. In an age when historical awareness is fast disappearing from secondaryschool curricula, it is refreshing to find a young author who appreciates and can re-create the Zeitgeist of an earlier period. Katherine Vandermel does just that in “Wind,” where she evokes the Netherlands under Nazi occupation and depicts a doomed soldier-brother, a literary memorial to all those heroic young men who never returned after World War II. Ye Zin Cho creates a gritty conte noire in “Walking Home with a Peach Iced Tea in Summertime.” No adult, knowledgeable reader will fail to recognize and respond to Ye’s depiction of the underbelly of the immigrant experience. In a very few pages, Ye conveys the hope, crushing reality, bitterness, and brutality of the second generation in an Asian-American household.

“Green Stands for Starting Over,” by Eva Nahass, recalls the film “Sleeping with the Enemy,” in which the heroine’s life is threatened by a “control-freak.” In this case, Ms. Nahass’s heroine, Allie, “wakes up” in time, only to discover that…? Katherine Shea, Jonathan Tennenbaum, Catherine Park, and Rebecca Parish, in their scholarly treatment, respectively, of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, the rock band Pink Floyd and hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, “The American Dream,” and racism, all demonstrate interpretative perspicacity and argumentative skill. Their fresh insights revive interest in iconic texts and issues that many of us thought had been “done to death” by over-consideration. Next year’s personal essays will undoubtedly be dominated by discussion of the coronavirus pandemic; this year’s focus on predictable classic themes: haunting memories of World War II, the finality in life of some goodbyes, the inexorable passage of time, and nostalgia for a muddy puddle, a cause celebre in elementary school and later a symbol of a simpler childhood time in a world that’s becoming unrecognizable because of technology. Tennyson referred to the discipline of verse as “a dull mechanical exercise,” with the inestimable virtue of calming and refocusing the mind in the midst of chaos. Our four poets, Eleana Pardo, Rio Matsumoto, Sophie Han, and Grace Yang, all show mastery of prosody and therefore help readers understand their insights on reaching adulthood in contemporary America. Broken crayons, scarred hands, the colors blue/gray/black/steel/stone/red and white, and a dandelion are among the images they use to express loss of innocence and, in some cases, tentative hope for the future. As in the past, we can never go to press without thanking the many people whose generosity makes the Writing Contest and Pegasus possible. We are in debt to our reading committee: Dr. Leigh Jonaitis, Prof. Jim Bumgardner, and Prof. John Findura. We also could not have had the Contest this year without Acting President Anthony Ross, VicePresident of Academic Affairs Brock Fischer, and Dean Adam Goodell, who continue to show the Administration’s strong support of this endeavor. We also have to thank Annemarie Roscello and Larry Hlavenka for providing the logistical, scheduling, and advertising expertise on which we depend. Wilson Aguilar, as in years past, designed the cover and layout of the magazine. Of course, this program could not exist without the dedication and encouragement of the English and Language Arts teachers in the high schools of Bergen County. For their unfailing enthusiasm and mentoring of gifted young writers, we are deeply grateful. Co-Directors Dr. Geoffrey J. Sadock Professor Peter Helff

BERGEN COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL WRITING CONTEST

FINALISTSSCHOLARLY ESSAY 1st Prize Katherine Shea

Northern Highlands Regional High School

“Hamlet and Humanity”

2nd Prize Jonathan Tenenbaum

Tenafly High School

“Pink Floyd and The Scarlet Letter: Tracing Tension and The Inevitable Breaking Point”

3rd Prize Catherine Park

Bergen County Academies

“The American Dream: An Artificial Fantasy”

Honorable Mention Rebecca Parish

Tenafly High School

“Black, White and Red All Over: Ethan Frome and The Scarlet Letter”

POETRY 1st Prize Eleana Pardo

Bergen County Academies

“broken crayons”

2nd Prize Rio Matsumoto

Bergen County Academies

“Her Hands”

3rd Prize Sophie Han

Bergen County Academies

“terminal loneliness”

Honorable Mention Grace Yang

Bergen County Academies

“A dandelion’s time is different from people’s”

PERSONAL ESSAY 1st Prize Christina Feinroth

Hackensack High School

“Goodbye is a Funny Word”

2nd Prize Katherine Vandermel

Bergen County Academies

“The Diary”

3rd Prize Jonathan Tenenbaum

Tenafly High School

“A Stew of Sticks and Mud: Tales of Lost Boyhood”

Honorable Mention Nicole Eisenberg

Northern Highlands Regional High School

“10 Years”

BERGEN COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL WRITING CONTEST

FINALISTSSHORT STORY 1st Prize Katherine Vandermel

Bergen County Academies

“Wind”

2nd Prize Sylvie Adams

Bergen County Academies

“Beignet Brees”

3rd Prize Eva Nahass

Paramus Catholic High School

“Green Stands for Starting Over”

Honorable Mention Ye Zin Cho

Bergen County Academies

“Walking Home with a Peach Iced Tea in the Summer”

DRAMA 1st Prize Brandon Hwang

Ramsey High School

A Conversation with a Stranger

2nd Prize Amelie Caceres

Bergen County Academies

When the Levee Breaks

3rd Prize Jacob Makofske

Northern Highlands Regional High School

Hero-Man

Honorable Mention Lindsey Polevoy

Bergen County Academies

David Bergenstein’s Big Day

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Scholary Essay Hamlet and Humanity Katherine Shea, Northern Highlands Regional High Schools Pink Floyd and The Scarlet Letter: Tracing Tension and The Inevitable Breaking Point Jonathan Tenenbaum, Tenafly High School The American Dream: An Artificial Fantasy Catherine Park, Bergen County Academies Black, White and Red All Over: Ethan Frome and The Scarlet Letter Rebecca Parish, Tenafly High School Poetry broken crayons Eleana Pardo, Bergen County Academies Her Hands Rio Matsumoto, Bergen County Academies terminal loneliness Sophie Han, Bergen County Academies A dandelion’s time is different from people’s Grace Yang, Bergen County Academies Personal Essay Goodbye is a Funny Word Christina Feinroth, Hackensack High School The Diary (Removed from the publication at the request of the author) Katherine Vandermel, Bergen County Academies

A Stew of Sticks and Mud: Tales of Lost Boyhood Jonathan Tenenbaum, Tenafly High School

10 Years Nicole Eisenberg, Northern Highlands Regional High Schools

Short Story Wind (Removed from the publication at the request of the author) Katherine Vandermel, Bergen County Academies

12 14

Beignet Brees Sylvie Adams, Bergen County Academies

Green Stands for Starting Over Eva Nahass, Paramus Catholic High School

Walking Home with a Peach Iced Tea in the Summer Ye Zin Cho, Bergen County Academies

Drama A Conversation with a Stranger Brandon Hwang, Ramsey High School

When the Levee Breaks Amelie Caceres, Bergen County Academies

Hero-Man Jacob Makofske, Northern Highlands Regional High Schools

David Bergenstein’s Big Day Lindsey Polevoy, Bergen County Academies

26 27 29 31 33 35 37 40 50 57

HAMLET AND HUMANITY Katherine Shea

Northern Highlands Regional High School

n Hamlet and the Art of Memory, Peter Kanelos argues that memory is the central theme of Hamlet. According to Kanelos, the play follows ideas of legacy and significance as the priorities of those at Elsinore, as it begins and ends with pleas for remembrance. Kanelos’s argument encompasses three assertions: Shakespeare “intended the consideration of memory to have a central place in Hamlet”; Shakespeare purposefully wrote Hamlet for his audience to consider memory as it was generally accepted at the time; and Shakespeare “offered through Hamlet a critique of memory that expands into a critique of Hamlet himself” (67). In arguing that memory is central to Hamlet, however, Kanelos fails to acknowledge all the other themes such as love, redemption versus damnation, and forgiveness versus revenge in the play, and underestimates characters’, primarily Hamlet’s, yearning for exhibited integrity and benevolence in Elsinore rather than an acquired legacy. While Hamlet does question his own significance as well as that of those before and after him, his questions of life and individual purpose are not based on remembrance but rather on humanity and merit. In Hamlet, memory is not the central concept, but rather a fragment of both Hamlet and Shakespeare’s contemplation of humanity itself; it is not memory, but the conflicts of humanity exhibited in Elsinore that constitute the play and allow us truly to understand Hamlet. Kanelos’s first contention is that Shakespeare “intended the consideration of memory to have a central place in Hamlet ” (67). Kanelos claims that the exposition of Hamlet and the epicenter of Shakespeare’s focus on memory lie in Hamlet and the Ghost’s first exchange (67), as the Ghost asks Hamlet to remember him and his ruthless murder (I,v,98), followed by Hamlet recording the Ghost’s commandment in the “tables of [his] memory” (I,v,105). According to Kanelos, Hamlet’s primary concern is the memory of his father rather than the revenge of his murder. This initial exchange for Hamlet, however, is crucial to more than just his exhibited remembrance of his father; it reveals his desire to remain a loyal son and uphold his family’s honor. For Hamlet, committing to the Ghost’s commandment is a matter of family versus morality, not necessarily the maintenance of his father’s legacy or commandment. Obeying his father’s wishes would require a complete erasure of Hamlet’s previously-accepted morality, and Hamlet does initially claim he will clear any previous naivetÈ and

SCHOLARLY ESSAY

childhood values in the name of avenging his father (I,v,106–111). Shakespeare, however, twists Hamlet’s delayed action into a full analysis of humanity itself, as he ponders immediately turning to murder and shifts from promising imminent revenge to asking himself if murder is truly honorable and “debate[s] the question of this straw” (IV,iv,27). Hamlet’s delayed revenge is not a result of a “knot of memory” (68) but rather a knot of morality. Although Kanelos claims that the play is centered around memory as the source of climactic action, Hamlet remains a demonstration of how, in the end, true character, rather than the pursuit of a legacy, is the main determinant of action or lack thereof. In reflecting upon his initial view of death and a man’s ultimate significance after his death, Hamlet asks himself, “What is this quintessence of dust?” (II,ii,332). The characters of Hamlet are Shakespeare’s personified contemplations of man’s potential to become more than a “quintessence of dust,” as both Hamlet and Ophelia aspire to mend their families’ respective wounds and advocate for morality. In Hamlet, memory is used as a vehicle to contemplate death and its indiscrimination of a character’s greatness; to say that it is central to the play would be to undermine the complexity of each character and his or her perspective of the unfolding tragedy at Elsinore. While in the graveyard, Hamlet considers: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam whereto he was converted might they not stop a beer barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall t’ expel the winter’s flaw! (V,i,216 223) Hamlet recalls his childhood, how Yorick “bore me on his / Back a thousand times” and kissed Hamlet with affection (V,i,192–195). In Hamlet’s contemplation of Alexander the Great and Caesar, he examines how, despite power, one’s status cannot protect oneself from becoming dust or control one’s destiny in the afterlife; rather, it is character, like that of Yorick, that determines if one remains dust, or if one can bear larger significance in the scheme of reality following one’s death. Others at Elsinore may have forgotten Yorick; however, his personification of humanity left an imprint of joy and gaiety in Hamlet’s

mother’s lack of memory for his father, but also by her lack of compassion for her family’s loss. She now sees “[his] noble father in the dust” and willingly accepts that “all lives die, / Passing through nature to eternity” (I,ii,74–75) without regard for the significance of loss to her son. Hamlet sees Gertrude’s abandoned grief as inhumane, as he questions her actual value for their family and himself if she can so seemingly stop mourning her husband. To Hamlet, his mother may have grieved only for the sake of tradition and public perception, not because she lost her husband. Thus, it is not the idea of remembering King Hamlet that consumes Hamlet in his desire for avenging his father; it is the idea of the importance of his loved ones that causes Hamlet to question his mother and her grief over King Hamlet. Hamlet’s value of humanity drives him in his evaluation of people as more than a mere “quintessence of dust” or distant memory. He sees the permanent loss of human life, not the shallow acknowledgement of death as an inevitable inconvenience that survivors such as Gertrude may quickly attempt to move on from. Kanelos’s second contention is that Shakespeare’s intent

mind. Despite Hamlet’s repulsion at Yorick’s abhorrent physical remains (V,i,190–202), Hamlet nostalgically recalls his childhood with Yorick, embodying the idea that it is compassion and virtue that influence lives following one’s own rather than his or her legacy. Despite Kanelos’s idea that desires for remembrance prompt the play’s plot, memory as a central concept in Hamlet is most plausible in Hamlet’s treatment of Gertrude. The value of memory as a theme in Hamlet may have been established by the appearance of the Ghost, but it shifts to surround Gertrude for the rest of the play. Gertrude’s seemingly-expedited recovery from her grief for her late husband angers Hamlet, as he feels she has abandoned their family for status and, as Hamlet sees it, incest (I,ii,149–162). Hamlet angrily criticizes her lack of time spent grieving for her husband, noting the brevity and possible fabrication of his mother’s grief when, less than two months ago, she had been “like Niobe, all tears” (I,ii,153). Gertrude further frustrates Hamlet by asking him to stop grieving so dramatically and move on from his father’s death (I,ii,70–75). Hamlet feels abandoned not only by his

in Hamlet was to force his audience to consider memory as it was generally accepted at the time (67). Kanelos cites Socrates’s declaration from Theaetetus that “[w]hatever is so imprinted we remember and know so long as the image remains; whatever is rubbed out or has not succeeded in leaving an impression we have forgotten and do not know” (71). Kanelos extends this idea of an imprint on memory to Hamlet’s promise to remember his father’s commandment, arguing that the initial encounter with the Ghost would cause Hamlet immediately to “clear the slate and copy down the Ghost’s imperative” on his memory (71) and begin planning revenge. When the Ghost implores Hamlet to remember, he is asking him to draw vengeance from the wells of his own, the elder Hamlet’s, past. The son, recognizing that the two pasts are fundamentally irreconcilable, declares that he will erase his own. The futility of such self-erasure is marked by irony—the gesture of writing, that of a scholar noting what ought to be done, is from the foreign, humanistic world, even as it promises allegiance to the first, that of blood ties and vengeance. (75) However, Kanelos disregards the very principle that causes Hamlet to abandon his own beliefs: it is not his valued remembrance of his father, but rather the enveloping notion that Hamlet deeply values his loved ones and, fundamentally, life and humanity as blessings. In reality, Hamlet does not offer his allegiance to violence and revenge, but to his father and the idea that his family’s redemption is larger than himself. Hamlet does not necessarily write down the Ghost’s commandment to “record it faithfully for future retrieval” (74), but to honor his father as a faithful son would, as it seems no one else has maintained his/her loyalty to his father’s memory. Hamlet places his family above his own self-interest as an act of devotion to humanity, not to his father’s material desire for a legacy or remembrance. It is not, however, memory which eventually prpmpts Hamlet to “final action”; it is Hamlet’s evaluation of and loyalty to his family life which finally drive him to murder. According to Kanelos, after the Ghost appears to Hamlet for the first time, “Hamlet’s conduct, his maneuvering through the miasma of Denmark, is directed towards the accession of this knowledge. His expectation is that this knowledge [of his father’s murder] will ‘propel him into final action’” (75). Until then, Hamlet’s morale and examination of humanity dictate his immediate actions. Hamlet is neither concerned with his own legacy nor preoccupied with creating one for his murdered father, but is instead consumed with how conceit and greed can easily dismantle individuals and the general humanity at Elsinore. Hamlet looks to avenge the loss of morality and deference which have disappeared since his father’s murder, not necessarily to take his revenge as a salute to his father’s remembrance or as a fulfillment of his conscience. In even considering murder despite the damage he has al-

ready witnessed as a result of it, Hamlet prioritizes his family’s rectitude above his own principles. The core of Hamlet is not concerned with remembrance: it holds that the integrity and virtuosity of characters embody the spirit of humanity in Elsinore. Memory of Hamlet’s father may have sparked the plot of the play, but had it been truly central to Hamlet’s heart, Hamlet would have killed Claudius as soon as he got the chance; instead, his own morality delays him. Hamlet’s initiative for murder only arrives after Gertrude dies, as he quite possibly feels that he has nothing more to lose once both of his parents have died, and therefore neither can witness (for Gertrude, the second time) the crime against humanity he is about to commit. By the end of Hamlet, it is evident that Hamlet’s murder of Claudius was not a matter of proving strength or even an egotistical display of masculinity, but of intrinsic values. Hamlet’s final wish is that Horatio live and “report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied” (V,ii,371–372). Contrary to Kanelos’s argument, Hamlet’s wish is not for Horatio to be create a legacy for the Prince, but rather to caution against the trespasses of morality like those made at Elsinore, as he warns Horatio as the sole survivor of greed’s potential to destroy humanity. Ultimately, Hamlet disregards his own philosophy of inevitably becoming dust and fights to his own death for something larger than himself; dying, Hamlet realizes that the perpetuation of humanity and morality is simply more important than the perpetuation of remembrance. The prime example in Hamlet of true humanity and ideal nature is Ophelia. Simply, Ophelia is good; she does not live to build her own legacy, but rather lives to ask those at Elsinore to remember her father as the genuine figure she remembers. She is the manifestation of benevolence in Hamlet, as she longs for restoration of goodness more than she desires to keep living, and she remains an embodiment of kindness and clarity in character. In doing so, Ophelia is an exemplar of humanity at Elsinore. Her distribution of flowers symbolizing remembrance of adultery, greed, and cruelty (IV,v,199–209) is her final cry for her peers to amend their actions, as she sees that the sin in Elsinore is what led to her father’s death and will lead to further unrest. Her purity of heart is perhaps why Shakespeare chooses to return Ophelia to heaven by water rather than to return her to dust: water provides her with shelter from the toxicity that polluted her soul and drove her to suicide. Ophelia is perhaps the only character in the play who does not cause detriment to others, but is necessary to any preservation of character and good will in Elsinore, as seen in how Laertes turns to anger and revenge after seeing his sister’s mind poisoned by undue violence (IV,v,237–242). On her death bloodshed truly spreads to almost all other characters. In Hamlet, the issue of becoming the quintessence of dust is a matter of the example of humanity that one embodies in one’s life, not the

legacy that one ultimately leaves behind. In her attempts to heal the inhumanity of those at Elsinore, Ophelia captures Shakespeare’s intentions of Hamlet: when triggered by each other, sin and greed eventually poison any innocence remaining and continue to eat away at humanity until nothing but a “foul and pestilent congregation of vapors” (II,ii,326) remains. Kanelos’s third contention is that Shakespeare “offered through Hamlet a critique of memory that expands into a critique of Hamlet himself ” (67). Throughout the play, Hamlet contemplates the devices through which immorality and sin corrupted his previously- beloved home. Here, Kanelos’s argument finds its main fault in Hamlet himself: Hamlet is not necessarily concerned with memory, but rather its essence in human morale. Hamlet’s evaluation of man as a mere “quintessence of dust” (II,ii,332) reflects the larger Christian idea that humans come from dust and return to dust. For Hamlet, those who act selfishly will forever be dust, while those are genuinely good will have earned both earthly and heavenly value. Hamlet comes to the realization that selfish desires took his childhood away from him and, despite the vows that he would renounce any naivetÈ in order to avenge his father (I,v,106–116), continues to delay his revenge against Claudius. Instead of motivating Hamlet to avenge his father, the Ghost of King Hamlet becomes a reminder of Hamlet’s youth and previously assumed goodwill toward those around him. As he becomes consumed with his contemplation of murder or forgiveness, Hamlet’s past literally haunts him in the form of his father’s ghost as he questions his own delay of revenge and guilt for his inability to avenge his father. In Hamlet, Hamlet’s delay of murder is not a mere example of a teenager’s notorious ability to procrastinate, but rather an exhibit of Hamlet’s prioritization of humanity, as he debates the actual worth of revenge and murder as a consequence of remembering his father’s wish. Hamlet’s concern with humanity and with what he per-

ceives as man’s inevitable return to dust is indicative of much more than a desire for legacy; Hamlet does not wish merely to be dust but to mend the wounds of immorality that have been inflicted on Elsinore. To Shakespeare, Hamlet is not the subject of critique; Hamlet is the vehicle to critique the flaws of mortal men. In Hamlet, memory is not the core value of the play, but a contributing element to the overarching debate of humanity. The play contrasts greed and sin in power-hungry individuals with the manifested benevolence and sincerity in characters who desire a return to peace and human decency in Elsinore. Both Hamlet and Shakespeare himself question man’s capacity to become more than a “quintessence of dust” in avoiding sin as a method to obtain a legacy but rather act with love and reverence for human life. The greater debate about humanity is what continues to move Hamlet along from the exposition of the Ghost’s appearance to the finale of Fortinbras honoring the lives of those who were murdered in the face of greed. In reference to Hamlet’s manipulation of different characters for his own interest despite the pain he’s experienced, Kanelos writes, “We are asked to interpret Hamlet against Hamlet, without promise of reaching a final conclusion. We are led to believe that this endeavor is not without purpose” (77). In Hamlet, however, there is a conclusion: Shakespeare cautions his audience that selfishness and sin bring about chaos, bloodshed, and the loss of all those involved, regardless of innocence. He warns against self-interest, and his play ultimately advises us to act honestly and remain wary of greed and its tendency to immorality. Fundamentally, Hamlet is not about memory or legacy; it is about people. n Works Cited Kanelos, Peter. “Hamlet and the Art of Memory.” Hamlet Studies, 2003;XXV:67–80. Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. Edited by Barbara A. Mowat and Paul Werstine. New York: Washington Square Press, 1992.

PINK FLOYD AND THE SCARLET LETTER: TRACING TENSION AND THE INEVITABLE BREAKING POINT Jonathan Tenenbaum

Tenafly High School

s Roger Waters, founder and lead bassist of progressive rock band Pink Floyd, once famously said, “How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?” While this may appear to be yet another one of the many equally iconic and outright ridiculous lines produced in the madness of the ‘70’s rock scene, this somewhat silly sentiment proves to hold true meaning at the core of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. As the novel culminates in the Reverend Dimmesdale’s powerful public revelation, the figurative pudding, or reward, of the story, Dimmesdale’s reasoning behind and final decision to expose his sin, in the distant and shocking circumstances of 1600s Puritan Boston, can be seen as somewhat unrelatable regardless of the moment’s poignancy. The meat of Dimmesdale’s mental strife must be considered in order to understand the inescapable nature of his public revelation. Thus, using a form of modern media, in this case, The Dark Side of the Moon, allows for a platform better to bridge the gap of nearly four centuries and better appreciate Dimmesdale’s emotional state and dramatic death. The progression of mental decay in both Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon and The Scarlet Letter uses the 1973 rock album as a lens for analysis in the discussion of building tension leading to a desperate need for confession. First, both The Dark Side of the Moon and Dimmesdale’s journey in The Scarlet Letter begin with a sense of hopeless self-endangerment. The track “Breathe” opens with silence broken by a distant heartbeat, maintaining a steady yet ominously approaching rhythm until a minute or so into the song, when a cacophony of sounds, recurring later in the album, tools of foreshadowing, introduces itself. The mix of screams, laughter, helicopter blades, and cash register dings twist into a chaotic storm backed by a synth rapidly increasing in volume, enough to trigger any listener’s fight-or-flight response. But, before panic can completely set in, the song fades into an eerily mellow bassline. As Hester stands before the crowd in Chapter 3, the same feeling of frantic realization of weakness is palpable. The spotlight, the judgmental eyes, and weight of societal condemnation combine to create a sense of her vulnerability. Then, amidst the confusion and exposure, comes Dimmesdale, the supposed voice of reason to deliver the sermon. Similar to the melody switch in the opening of “Breathe,” his presence may seem soothing at

SCHOLARLY ESSAY

first, but retrospectively, knowing of the veneer that is his moral superiority, his presence foreshadows his eventual demise. Dimmesdale preaches and urges Hester publicly “to speak out the name of [her] fellow-sinner and fellowsufferer…[and] be not silent from any mistaken pity and tenderness for him… though he were to step down from a high place, and stand there beside [her], on [her] pedestal of shame, yet better were it so than to hide a guilty heart through life” (Hawthorne 63). Here, Dimmesdale’s sense of guilt is already proven as “to the Puritans, and to Dimmesdale as a Puritan minister, the public exposure of sin is of vital importance to the sinner” and while “the townspeople [remain] ignorant of Dimmesdale's role in Hester's sin… to Hester and the reader, it is also a plea for assistance. Dimmesdale wants Hester to name him even as he does not want to be named” (Pimple 258). Dimmesdale feels the weight of his confession as a devout Puritan regardless of his adultery as the only way truly to absolve himself of his sin and by hypocritically assuming the position of lecturer, referring to how he would “step down from a high place,” despite playing an equal role in the unholy, lowly act of adultery, simply forces Dimmesdale to dig himself deeper into a hole of guilt and need for relief. This sense of reckless self-endangerment in the search for answers is echoed within the lyrical portion of “Breathe,” as the band sings, Run, rabbit run Dig that hole, forget the sun And when at last the work is done Don't sit down, it's time to dig another one For long you live and high you fly But only if you ride the tide And balanced on the biggest wave You race towards an early grave. The profound truth shared between the two works in this instant, be it coincidental or not, proves the importance of the album’s use in this context as its consideration allows for Dimmesdale’s state of mind to be condensed and its relevance demonstrated. Dimmesdale, the rabbit, has committed sin and must run and dig himself deeper as his guilty conscience pushes him closer to his revelation and expiration. The second crucial step of Dimmesdale’s journey to his eventual public declaration of guilt is his realization of Chillingworth’s evil presence and efforts to destroy him

psychologically, sharing yet more marked similarities with The Dark Side of the Moon. On the track appropriately named “Brain Damage,” set to an epic instrumental bolstered by a choir and strange laughter, Roger Waters and Peter Watts intone, The lunatic is in my head You raise the blade, you make the change You rearrange me 'til I'm sane You lock the door And throw away the key There's someone in my head but it's not me. His gradual realization that “[his] conscience... [is] kept in an irritated state... to disorganize and corrupt his spiritual being” (153) leads to his understanding of two key points that aid in conveying how inescapable his public declaration of sin is. Dimmesdale’s noting of the presence of “someone in [his] head but… not [himself ]” is not only unnerving but leads him to understand that, first, “[Chillingworth]'s revenge [is] blacker than [his] sin… violat[ing], in cold blood, the sanctity of a human heart. [Dimmesdale and] Hester, never did so!” (Hawthorne 230). Second, he “reasons with Chillingworth… that the judgment on that Last Day will not be God's punishment of the damned and reward of the saved… [but the] final revelation of human guilt and the opening of the mysteries of this world” (Davidson 362). Thus, Dimmesdale’s awareness of Chillingworth’s parasitic station within his mind, a concept echoed and made concise by Pink Floyd, allows him to consider the relative mildness of his sin and his intention to endure public judgment, both crucial to his final revelation and the relatability of his need for it. Lastly, Dimmesdale’s decision to start his life anew with Hester and Pearl demonstrates how his desperation to expose his sin and relieve himself of its burden is truly inexorable. On the last track of the album, in a finale of theatrical proportions, Waters sings hauntingly, And all that is now And all that is gone And all that's to come And everything under the sun is in tune But the sun is eclipsed by the moon This song and its message immediately relate to

Dimmesdale’s dream to move with Hester and Pearl to Europe, specifically Chillingworth’s foiling of these plans. Much as the song states, all the steps in Dimmesdale’s arduous journey fade away in the face of his hope to reinvent himself and create a better life for his daughter far away from callous, Puritanical Boston. However, while “everything under the sun is in tune,” the symbolic sun of his wish for a new, fulfilling life is “eclipsed by the moon,” or, Chillingworth, listing as a member of Hester’s party upon the ship to Europe, truly the final straw. As the novel and the album convey, with nothing to lose and everything besides Chillingworth working in his favor, Dimmesdale is more tempted than ever to use his power of speech to combat evil and overcome the restraints set upon him (Pimple 267). The unavoidable nature of Dimmesdale’s revelation can be made clear in the key developments Dimmesdale undergoes and the use of Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon as a lens for analysis. The album’s notable similarities to the novel provide both a valuable perspective on the nature of mental decay requiring cathartic release and prove the pertinence of the lessons communicated through Dimmesdale’s struggle within modern pop culture and life. With the application of the progressive rock album, Hawthorne’s writing can truly be reinterpreted and renewed. Ultimately, the causes of his guilt aside, Dimmesdale’s intensifying internal strife demonstrates the need to relieve stress so as to prevent a crippling release of suppressed emotion that is, as both the album and novel prove, inevitable. n Works Cited Davidson, Edward H. “Dimmesdale's Fall.” The New England Quarterly, vol. 36, no. 3, 1963, pp. 358–370. JSTOR Accessed 28 January 2020. Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter. New York: Penguin Books Ltd., 2003. Pimple, Kenneth D. “‘Subtle, but Remorseful Hypocrite’: Dimmesdale's Moral Character.” Studies in the Novel, vol. 25, no. 3, 1993, pp. 257–271. JSTOR, Accessed 28 January 2020.

THE AMERICAN DREAM: AN ARTIFICIAL FANTASY Catherine Park

Bergen County Academies

n the aftermath of World War II, there was an effort to rebuild the cultural fabric of a society devastated by conflict. Consequently, a new form of theater emerged: the Theater of the Absurd. According to Martin Esslin, who coined the term in his 1962 book The Theater of the Absurd, it is “a theater of images, of metaphors” that purposefully disregards the conventions and standards of traditional theater productions. In the Theater of the Absurd, plots are neither realistic nor logical, and characters lack firm definition. As Esslin explains, these works of absurdist fiction reflect the idea that “the self itself is a mystery.” One of the most prominent playwrights, whose works fall in this category, was Edward Albee. In one of his most famous works, “The American Dream,” he demonstrates the power of a character in an unconventional way. Unlike more traditional plays, in which the characters move the plot forward with relatively “realistic” behavior and dialogue, Albee uses his characters to represent less tangible ideas, specifically those pertaining to the ever-elusive “American Dream.” In The American Dream, Albee discusses the contemporary nature of American values and ideals allegorically through the characterization of his central characters. One of these is the idea of the perfect American family. By extension, Albee examines familial love and intimacy, or lack thereof, through the characterization of Mommy and Daddy. The relationship between the characters of Mommy and Daddy, as well as their individual character traits, is established during the opening scene of the play. In this scene, Mommy initiates a largely one-sided conversation with Daddy on her purchase of a hat. Her monologue revolves around how she initially purchased a beigecolored hat, then returned it after being convinced by the chairwoman of her woman’s club that it was actually wheatcolored, then was persuaded into buying a hat again by the salespeople in the store who insisted that once it was out of the artificial light, it was indeed beige-colored. Clearly, all three decisions were not made on any logical or substantive basis. Throughout her story, Daddy struggles to pay attention and interjects only periodically with short, emotionless, responses to avoid Mommy’s nagging. At the end of Mommy’s monologue, when Daddy points out that it must have been the same hat all along, she replies cheerfully, “Well, of course it was!” Daddy remarks, “That’s the way things are today; you just can’t get satisfaction; you just try.”

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Mommy responds resolutely, “Well, I got satisfaction.” (Albee 102) Several character traits are highlighted in the scene that draw attention to the representation of the deterioration of genuine love and intimacy in the ideal of the “American Dream.” Daddy establishes himself as an exceedingly passive and despondent character, resigned to his seemingly dull life and uninterested in his wife. Mommy is portrayed as obsessive over material goods, like her hat, and then establishes herself as an attention-seeking, inconsiderate, and frivolous character through her constant beratement of Daddy and the recollection of her purchase. She nags Daddy to “pay attention,” prompting him to respond many times throughout her monologue, and, as her story shows, she goes to humorously ridiculous lengths to achieve the illusion of “satisfaction” through the attainment of material goods. The relationship between Mommy and Daddy, devoid of any real love or interest in each other, represents Albee’s views on traditional American values and how far they have deviated from their original well-intentioned ideals. The opening scene of the play serves as a commentary on how the failure within the American family to achieve real closeness can be attributed to materialism in American culture. Although it has been interpreted in many different ways throughout history, the American Dream often refers to material wealth, and the freedom or ability to pursue it, as a measure of success. Albee indicates to his audience the shortcomings of this ideal by bringing to light how the pursuit of satisfaction in material possessions goes hand in hand with harmful self-indulgence. The self-centered nature of both Mommy and Daddy, as revealed later in the story, makes them incompatible partners and inadequate, incompetent, parents. Thus, Albee reveals the true hollowness of the American Dream by displaying how artificial values have replaced real ones in the characters’ priorities. Just as Mommy and Daddy’s loveless and sterile relationship was an indication of the deterioration of the ideal of an American family, the characterization of Mommy and Mrs. Barker in their own relationship addresses another component of the American Dream: social hierarchy. Proponents of the American Dream often describe America’s classless society with pride and explain how achieving the American Dream implies liberation from the confines of social stratification. In Albee’s play, however, a power balance is established almost immediately between

Mommy and Mrs. Barker. As Mrs. Barker asserts her superiority, Mommy becomes decidedly pleasant and accommodating towards her. In another discussion about the color of a hat, Mrs. Barker asserts that her hat is cream-colored. Mommy objects, “Well, my dear, that may look like a cream hat to you, but I can…” Mrs. Barker interrupts her and warns, “Now, now; you seem to forget who I am” to which Mommy responds, “Yes, I do, don’t I?” (Albee 114) Mommy and Mrs. Barker’s conversation reveals that, as the chairman of Mommy’s woman’s club, Mrs. Barker has authority over her. Mommy constantly yields to and affirms Mrs. Barker’s comments with exclamations of “Isn’t that lovely” and “I think that’s grand” (Albee 118). In the presence of a figure with a higher social status than herself, Mommy is characterized as relatively meek and obliging. Mrs. Barker, on the other hand, is a busy character with numerous social engagements and responsibilities. She tells Mommy, “I’m such a busy girl, with this committee and that committee, and the Responsible Citizens Activities I indulge in” (Albee 123). Mommy and Mrs. Barker’s relationship suggests how the idea of a classless American society is a far cry from reality. Social divisions are clearly drawn, based on who has the luxury of engaging and belonging to multiple social groups. In the story, Mrs. Barker’s busy schedule and association with multiple groups of people are desirable, marking her as a “Responsible Citizen.” People like Mommy, who is less socially involved, are relatively less important. Despite Mommy’s effort to voice her own opinion in the exchange about the color of Mrs. Barker’s hat, she is silenced immediately by Mrs. Barker’s warning. The power dynamic between the two characters remains stagnant. The reality contradicts the promise of social mobility in the American Dream, which author Jim Cullen delineates as the “Dream of Upward Mobility” in his famous book The American Dream: A Short History of an Idea That Shaped a Nation. Albee reveals this deviation from the original American aspiration to equality and limitless potential through the character dynamics of Mommy and Mrs. Barker. In reality, these kinds of deviations from an ideal are almost unavoidable, but there is another aspect to be addressed. Through the characterization of the Young Man, Albee confronts the nature of the idea of the American Dream itself. The character of the Young Man is introduced near the conclusion of the play when he enters Mommy and Daddy’s home. He is described as “clean-cut, Midwest farm boy type, almost insultingly good-looking in a typically American way” (Albee 134) and dubbed “the American Dream” by Grandma. The Young Man’s

conversation with Grandma, however, reveals the character behind his façade. He states, “I am incomplete… I can feel nothing. I can feel nothing. And so… here I am… as you see me” (Albee 139). The Young Man is incapable of feeling emotion and can regard things with only a “cool disinterest” (Albee 138). The Young Man’s monologue describes “not only the ‘manufactured nature of the American Dream, but also the fact that it has turned into an empty textual construct” (Varró 12). While the American Dream seems appealing initially, it is nothing but an empty promise to those who chase it. Not only is its appeal ephemeral; it is artificial and altogether undesirable. The characterization of The Young Man depicts how the true meaning of the American Dream itself has lent itself to obscurity. Continuous re-interpretations of the concept throughout history damaged the integrity of the morals in its foundation. The character of the Young Man allows readers to return to the question of the extent to which literature can represent reality. In this case, the traits of The Young Man characterizes him as a manifestation of the decline of the ideals behind the American Dream. In Albee’s words, The American Dream is “a stand against the fiction that everything in this slipping land of ours is peachy-keen.” (Kingsley 1) Albee uses his characters in order to represent the decline of the values behind the American Dream. His characterization of Mommy, Daddy, Mrs. Barker, and Young Man provides insight into their relationships with each other and how these dynamics are associated with the reality they represent. Despite the abstract style of the Theater of the Absurd, Albee makes the distinguishing features of his characters clear and invites his audience to join him in “an examination of the American Scene” (Varró 12). n Works Cited: Kingsley, Lawrence. “Reality and Illusion: Continuity of a Theme in Albee.” Educational Theatre Journal, vol. 25, no. 1, 1973, pp. 71–79. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/3205837. Accessed 22 Jan. 2020. Varró, Gabriella. “Loyalty to ‘A Dream Country’: Staging Mythic Territories in Edward Albee's ‘The American Dream’ and Sam Shepard's ‘Buried Child.’” Hungarian Journal of English and American Studies (HJEAS), vol. 18, no. 1/2, 2012, pp. 343–356. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/43488480. Accessed 22 Jan. 2020. Albee, Edward. The Collected Plays of Edward Albee. New York, The Overlook Press, 2007.

BLACK, WHITE AND RED ALL OVER: ETHAN FROME AND THE SCARLET LETTER Rebecca Parish

Tenafly High School

N Ethan Frome, by Edith Wharton, and The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, color is used as a major symbol. The repeated use of color offers insight into how the characters think and feel. Although the authors also use black and white to highlight character traits, the two texts primarily focus on the color red, which is used to represent both passion and sin, particularly in the characters of Mattie Silver and Hester Prynne. In both texts, black is used to suggest evil or darkness that lies within a character. According to Michael Farber’s A Dictionary of Literary Symbols, black “often means simply “bad” or evil”” (29). In Ethan Frome, Zeena is the character most associated with black. For example, when Zeena returns from her doctor’s visit, her “face [stands] grimly out against the uncurtained pane, which ha[s] turned from grey to black” (Wharton 48). The room is often dark with Zeena in it. Similarly, black is repeated throughout The Scarlet Letter. As Nina Baym notes in her introduction, the novel opens with a crowd of Puritan men in gray garments in front of a gloomy prison, which Hawthorne describes as the “black flower of civilized society” (1). The prison is a place of evil, a place that conceals the truth. Hawthorne also uses black to describe the devil, who is referred throughout the novel as the “Black Man.” However, like Zeena, it is the evil Roger Chillingworth who is the character most associated with black. At their meeting in the prison, Hester says directly to Chillingworth, “Art thou like the Black Man that haunts the forest round about us?” (Hawthorne 70). In contrast, white is used in both books mostly to suggest Mattie’s purity and Pearl’s innocence. Wharton writes that the church has a “slim white steeple” (3), as well as a “white glimmer” (69). However, while Zeena is described with blacks and grays, Mattie is directly contrasted to her with her “milky whiteness” above her brows (34) . And it is not a coincidence that Mattie’s last name is Silver. Mattie, although perhaps not entirely innocent in her relationship with Ethan, is pure in the sense that she does not actually allow anything more than a kiss to happen between them. Likewise, in The Scarlet Letter, Pearl is the character most connected with white. Her name alone suggests this connection, as pearls are usually a shade of white. On one hand, this connection is unexpected since Pearl is not a perfect child. In fact, her behavior is often wild and shrill and

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she is the product of “sin.” However, she is also the product of love and the strong connection that Hester and Dimmesdale felt towards each other. Hester understands that when she gave birth to Pearl, “a great law had been broken and the result was a being whose elements were perhaps beautiful and brilliant, but all in disorder” (Hawthorne 81). In addition, Pearl is the person who saves Hester. As her constant companion, she saves Hester from human isolation. When Hester feels so much despair that she no longer cares if she lives or dies, it is the thought of Pearl that jolts her back to life. At the thought of losing Pearl, Hester explains that, “She is my happiness!-she is my torture, none the less! Pearl keeps me here in life! Pearl punishes me too! See ye not, she is the scarlet letter, only capable of being loved, and so endowed with a million-fold the power of retribution for my sin?” (100). Pearl is what motivates Hester to live. Black and white are significant in both the novella and the novel, but the most prominent color that appears is red. According to The Book of Symbols, “red is the color of life.” At the same time, red also symbolizes “sexual passion or aggression and rage” (“Red” 638). For both Mattie and Hester, the characters with whom it is associated most often in these texts, it does represent vitality and passion. However, red has a more complicated significance for the characters because it also suggests danger and seduction. In Ethan Frome, Mattie brings brightness to Ethan’s dreary, mundane life. Her cherry-colored scarf is mentioned a few times, and when she wears it, Ethan looks at Mattie in awe. For instance, Ethan sees Mattie at the dance in the church and she is wearing the scarf. After Ethan catches sight of the “cherry-coloured “fascinator” (Wharton 12), his “heart [is] beating fast” (12). Ethan feels excitement that he has not experienced for a long time. Mattie is able to bring Ethan life that Zeena lacks. On the other hand, in this same scene, Mattie is tempting a married man to fall in love with her and her cherry scarf represents both passion and sin. Ethan is jealous when Mattie, wearing the scarf, dances with Denis Eady. Later, when they arrive at the house and Zeena is standing by the door waiting, Mattie removes the scarf: “Mattie came forward, unwinding her wraps, the colour of the cherry scarf in her fresh lips and cheeks” (22). Ethan is in fact a married man and Zeena’s presence is a reminder of this fact. Furthermore, on Mattie’s last day with the Fromes,

she has “the red scarf wound about her” and Ethan thinks about leaving Zeena and going off with her (Wharton 58). When Mattie is around, Ethan is able to think he has a future he can look forward to because of her. So, as she prepares to leave them, Ethan feels empty because Mattie, his source of hope, is leaving him. While these emotions are happening internally, externally the setting behind Ethan is described: “A red sun stood over the grey rim of the fields, behind trees that looked black and brittle” (57). Wharton juxtaposes the red and black colors here to emphasize the internal turmoil that Ethan is experiencing. There are other times in the novella when Mattie is associated with the color red. For instance, the pickle jar that she takes out when she wants to prepare a nice meal for Ethan is a “dish of gay red glass” (Wharton 34). This scene is another example of Mattie’s way of “seducing” Ethan because she knows that the pickle jar is special to Zeena and she takes it out only when Zeena’s not home. The red pickle jar has several layers of meaning. At the meal, it shatters, just as Mattie will shatter and become crippled by the end of the story. Once Mattie is broken, so is Ethan. It also symbolically suggests the shattering of Ethan and Zeena’s marriage. The pickle dish had been a wedding gift, and when it breaks, it implies that even though Ethan and Zeena are still legally married, Ethan is so taken by Mattie that his marriage with Zeena will never be the same. Another example is Ethan’s scar from the sledding accident. There is a “red gash across Ethan Frome's forehead” (1). The scar itself is a physical reminder of the accident but the fact that it is red serves as a visual connection between Ethan and Mattie. Red has a similarly contradictory significance in The Scarlet Letter. The most obvious example of the color red in The Scarlet Letter is the letter “A” Hester wears upon her chest. The letter’s purpose is to represent the shame and lust Hester is supposed to feel. She wears the letter as a constant reminder of the sin she committed. However, this flaming letter can also be seen as a contrast to the black Puritan society Hester lives in. The gold-trimmed scarlet letter is beautiful too and has a “gorgeous luxuriance” to it (Hawthorne 50). Although it is supposed to mark Hester for life as a sinful person, it actually has the opposite effect: Hester feeds, clothes, and nurses the poor, even if they do not appreciate her kindness. As a result, the scarlet letter A no longer symbolizes a woman who has committed adultery. Baym explains how Hester changes the meaning of the letter: “She endows her letter with many meanings, and with many good meanings...At the story’s end, the subversive has prevailed, for no one remembers the original meaning of the scarlet letter. Able, Angel, Admirable – the list goes on, but Adulteress is conspicuously missing” (xxii). Hester has managed to take the red letter and transform it from a symbol of shame into a symbol of good. Another example of how Hawthorne uses the color red is the rosebush. In the beginning of The Scarlet Letter, Hes-

ter is compared to a red rose. Like both Hester and Pearl, the red rose by the prison door grows in this unexpected place. Baym describes this contrast. She suggests that when Hester emerges from the prison door, readers “have no choice but to associate the prisoner with the rose bush” (xiii). Hester is full of love for Dimmesdale and Pearl, traditionally what a rose symbolizes. Also, this rose is placed outside the prison; it stands out in the middle of the Puritan community. Hester is contrasted to the dreary society around her because unlike the people around her, she has passion and will even commit a sin to express that passion. She does not fit in with the community because this passion has no place with the Puritans, just as the rose is unfit to grow in front of a prison. Another instance of the symbolism of the color red is the appearance of the Indians, who are referred to in the novel as “red men” (Hawthorne 56). In an article titled, “Woman as Outsider,” Kristin Herzog explains the connection between Hester and the Indian by arguing that the wildness and passion in Hester’s character is “directly or indirectly identified with the American Indian” (100). Herzog goes on to explain that this aspect of Hester’s femininity (her passion) is a trait that separates her from the Puritan women around her. She describes how at the beginning of the novel Hester is described as “impulsive and passionate” and yet how the “desperate recklessness of her mood” is hidden behind a “serene deportment” (101). This is similar to how the Indians are portrayed at the end of the story when they flock to the town for the holiday: “A party of Indians... stood apart, with countenances of inflexible gravity, beyond what even a Puritan aspect could attain” (Hawthorne 202). Edith Wharton and Nathaniel Hawthore used color to allow readers to understand their characters on a deeper level. The intricacies of the characters and some of their struggles are highlighted by the symbolism of the colors. Specifically the color red, with its double meaning, suggests the complexity of the two sides of Mattie Silver, as well as the inner turmoil of Hester Prynne. n Works Cited Baym, Nina. Introduction. The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, 2003, Penguin Classics, 1983, pp. xii-xiii. Ferber, Michael. A Dictionary of Literary Symbols. Cambridge University Press, 1999, pp. 29. Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter. Penguin Books, 2003. Herzog, Kristin. “Woman as Outsider.” Women’s Issues in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, edited by Claudia Durst Johnson, Greenhaven Press, 2009, pp. 100-101. “Red.” The Book of Symbols: Reflections on Archetypal Images. Edited by Ami Ronenberg and Kathleen Martin. Taschen, 2010, pp. 638-641. Wharton, Edith. Ethan Frome. Dover Publications, 1991.

BROKEN CRAYONS Eleana Pardo

Bergen County Academies

I think there’s a sort of art in coloring with broken crayons. Something ominous about using that shade of green found lost behind the wooden cabinet full of years that have passed, long forgotten scissors and dusty cases of dull pencils. Torn out pages of time-tainted coloring books find themselves sitting lonely on shelves, and we constantly overlook what has seemed to lose its place. We live within constant competition with ourselves to be sharp and defined; dullness doesn't fulfill us anymore. We try to piece together the broken glass that makes up ourselves in a way that glistens as if it is new When, in actuality, smudged glue marks of us balancing those pieces are much more magnificent than acting as if the glue isn’t there. Our lives become so wrapped up in unfair belief, tied down to the idea that unless we are whole, we are nothing. I preach that broken crayons hold more kindness in their humble appearance than any sharpened one. More justice is brought to us when we follow that path and trade our predetermined ideas and accept our dull edges instead. And when we push on to find more lost crayons, that is when we are art.

POETRY

HER HANDS Rio Matsumoto

Bergen County Academies

Little girls on the playground, poking at her femininity, Her hands never matching their dainty fingers in soft mittens, But now worn down and covered with scars, she has a new sense of pride. Stitches down her left thumb holding on to her father’s roaring laughter, Palms pressing against the shower tiles as water runs down her back, trying to take the stranger’s hateful words with it, Cuts on her knuckles from holes in the wall, her silence screaming to be heard, Veins running down the back of her hands, their growing definitions, a reminder for her to eat. But the callouses trailing across her palms share stories of those she’s helped. The tan line wrapping around her wrist traces the countless miles she’s run. Her fingertips tap against the steering wheel as lyrics strung together help pull her back up. Her protective hands now hold on to the woman she loves, three light squeezes to assure her that she’ll never let go. Her gentle touch holds on to a bent piece of paper always kept in her wallet. A picture of her family that was once a guilty prayer, Now with a wife and two kids, she’s learned that her dream never needed repair.

POETRY

TERMINAL LONELINESS Sophie Han

Bergen County Academies

blue.

POETRY

black.

highest skies and deeper oceans, cold waters

I don’t know how long I’ve been awake,

and hottest flames.

maybe five minutes, maybe five hours.

hell must be the iciest of blues, almost white. so

I want, need sleep, but sleep is

cold that it burns, so hot

a blessing, a gift; sleep is

it bites. pain is pain is

rest. sleep is the doorway to a new day

pain, whether hot or cold. is heaven scarlet

I don’t want to enter. I’m not

and hell white, maybe they’re one and the

suicidal but maybe I kinda want to be

same. blue, blue, cold hot water fire. your

dead; I don’t really feel

favorite color is blue, like a midnight sky. you

like dying but I don’t always want to

are blue, sweet baby blue and navy blue com-

live, I’m just stuck somewhere

fort, cotton candy and celestial skies. your

in the middle. the clock says 3:38 in cold

favorite sweater is cornflower blue, you wear

blue. last time I checked it was 3:31;

sneakers the color of ocean depths.

maybe

calm, stable, faithful, not

it was 2:31. I can’t think about anything except

gray. steel.

stormy skies and raging rivers, moody waves and hazy smoke.

cool against my fingertips, sharp

everything around me is cloudy

edges, cold existence. pain, a little

gray, like I’m lost in medusa’s garden

like me. nothing,

and she’s added me to her collection.

I still feel nothing. a dull ache

dull eyes, numb smile, stone

in my chest, a faint pressure

heart, impenetrable as my well-practiced smile.

behind my eyes. no tears to be found, why

fuzzy, hazy, like I’m looking through

can’t I feel anything? I feel too

fog, but I don’t deserve the comfort of fogginess,

little, you feel too much. your tears are

so I force myself to focus, force my vision to

a few thoughts away, the ache in your chest

sharpen.

turns

I don’t deserve to let myself fade into

into heaving breaths. rivers run down flushed cheeks, quickly dammed

by sweater sleeves. shaking shoulders, shakie

favorite candy flavor is cherry, my skin is

words, the spaces between them desperate

striped like a watercolor candy cane. the ache

gasps for air. your heart is made of glass, mine

fades but I still

can’t breathe, even now there are no tears for me,

stone.

so I try again,

there are no tears left for me.

again, until everything is red and there’s only a

in the deepest oceans I must smile, in the

dull burn. but the hurt is nice, a reminder that

thickest smoke I laugh and joke. my

I’m not dead, at least not yet. why won’t it

truth is not needed

burn me

now. away, away, until my feelings are gone,

alive, until I’m nothing but gray ashes and

locked in a dusty prison. they fight and

stone fragments and your

scream, beat at their walls until

tears might fall on the broken fragments of my

I feel them in my chest but I

well-practiced smiles. red, dark

lost the key a long time ago.

crimson red, a little color on cold metal and

I have a new key that doesn’t fit right but it

colder skin. red for fire, if only I could light

works well

myself on fire and turn into smoke. maybe I

Enough; anything to get rid of this ache, make

already have.

me feel, even if it’s

everything is fading to

red.

white burning sunsets and crackling fireplaces,

or maybe it’s black.

love and hate in equal measure. your

A DANDELION’S TIME IS DIFFERENT FROM PEOPLE’S Grace Yang

Bergen County Academies

Yellow flowers turn to white cotton before the return of the new moon, A dandelion’s time is different from people’s.

To a mayfly living life busily, A day feels eternal.

And how to a luna moth, Summer never seems to end.

To a lost child, A day can go without end, Time passing ever so slowly.

The seasons change seven times in a single moment for the man searching, His time passing faster.

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GOODBYE IS A FUNNY WORD Christina Feinroth

Hackensack High School

oodbye is a funny word. It’s only seven letters, and yet it holds such a great weight. It seems so permanent, so foreboding. When my boyfriend drops me off after we hang out, we refuse to say goodbye to each other. For him, it’s because of a Bon Jovi song. For me, it’s because I’m terrified of the idea of “the end,” which is exactly what goodbye signifies. The end has been a fear of mine since the beginning. More specifically, I’m afraid of the end of the world. The first time I had heard of the idea of the end of the world was in church. I was brought up Catholic, and I will never forget asking my mom about the whole “the dead will come back and God will judge us all!” thing. My mom told me that one day, God will bring the dead back to Earth, then judge us, and decide what happens to us, kind of like a college admissions board. She was completely calm about it, and I was horrified. I’d have to say goodbye to those who didn’t make it. Friends, family, neighbors, gone, just like that. What if I didn’t get into heaven? I remember when the movie “2012” came out, and how it was rumored that the world would end that year. It was yet another instance that scared me endlessly. I’d have to say goodbye to everyone I knew and meet an untimely end that I didn’t deserve. And yet, 2013 went on without a hitch, and no wretched goodbyes were found necessary. However, goodbye can be good. It can provide closure in the most saddening of areas. For instance, goodbye proves useful during the last moments of a loved one’s life. Yes, that was a dark turn, I know. Yet, it’s the dark turn that this piece requires. Why, you ask? Because I was unable to say goodbye to my biological mother and adoptive grandmother when they passed away. I was robbed of the closure I needed. When my grandma was still alive, we were extremely close. I used to confide in her. I used to tell her how the end of the world was my biggest fear. As mentioned before, Catholicism was the answer to everything growing up. My grandma would remind me of a prayer called the Glory Be. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, Amen. I knew the prayer from Sunday School, and it helped. It comforted me, but, as always, that comfort didn’t last long. Within the next hour, I was thinking about every-

PERSONAL ESSAY

thing becoming nothing. What if my mom wasn’t home for it? What if I never got to see her again? I think this fear of the end grew from the lack of closure I have with my biological mother. Overnight, my life had changed. One day, she was healthy. The next, she was balding. Then, we were getting her a wig. Suddenly, she was dead. I was absolutely boggled when she passed. I wondered why all of the wishes I made on stars didn’t come true. Did God not personally receive the pennies I threw in the fountain at the Paramus Park Mall? How else could a four- year old comprehend such a tragedy? That’s just the thing. I couldn’t. But the tragedy didn’t stop there. In the fall of 2006, I was in the car with my biological father. We were at some ShopRite somewhere, pulling out of a spot. My father was an idiot. He hit a man’s car with our old, silver minivan. Unbeknownst to me, my father was a drug addict. The man who we hit instantly realized my father was under the influence of whatever he was on, and called the police. That was the day I saw men in blue take my father away. I’ll never forget it. I’ll never forget sitting in the back seat, watching it all happen. The car was hot. The seat belt scratched violently against my neck. I remember feeling that I was suffocating. I think I remember a female officer taking me out of the car. I think I remember her telling me that everything would be okay. I don’t think I believed her. I was put into the back of a cop car. It was a man driving this one, though. I don’t know where the woman went. I recall liking him more than the woman. He seemed nice. He tried to make things fun for me. When we got to the station, he took me into a room filled with other officers. He sat me down in a swivel chair. I looked up to see a million televisions, each showing a different part of the police station. I’ll never forget looking up to the top left and seeing my father being patted down in a holding cell. I didn’t know how to feel. I thought my father was a good guy. I knew my father was a good guy. Today, I know that he’s not. He’s a bad man. I was put into foster care. I was bullied and felt completely unloved. Finally, my parents today, who were family friends, took me in.

Everything seemed perfect. My father still had visitation rights, and I got to see my biological family and new family all the time. Best of all, I was told every day that my father would take me back once he was well enough to. But there was so much I wasn’t seeing. He was still addicted to drugs. He was inconsiderate, and was incapable of getting better. There was one day that stood out from every other day. It was the last day I saw my father; a day I didn’t say goodbye because I didn’t think I’d have to. I had grown to love my new family. I was calling my new mom - well - mom. She wasn’t my mom, and yet I had been calling her mom for over a year. I called her mom two days into living with them, and I quickly began calling my dad dad soon after. They are the only real parents I’ve ever known. My mom says today that she forgets they adopted me. I think it’s important to understand that adopted children are worth the same as those who are blood. My parents love me just as they love my siblings, and will forever love me unconditionally. Regardless, my biological father still had visitation rights, so he came over one day. We were playing happily under the big willow tree in my backyard. Out of nowhere, the realization that one day, I’d have to go back and live with him shot me in the face like Joe Pesci in “Goodfellas” (which would become one of my favorite movies as a teenager). I thought I was a made man living in my house. I was a part of the family, and everyone saw it that way. I don’t remember what game my father and I were playing, but it was a normal day. It was supposed to be a normal day, at least. Instead, it was a day that would launch a thousand angry ships. I felt so incredibly guilty for wanting to stay with my family. I believe the guilt I was feeling was the same guilt one feels when cheating on one’s significant other. How could I tell the man who was supposed to be my father that I didn’t want to live with him? How could I tell him that I loved my new family more, and that I wanted to stay with them? Nevertheless, I did. I told him that I didn’t want to live with him. I told him I wanted to stay. He began asking me questions, angry questions. He wanted to know why I felt like that. He wanted to know why I had decided that it was okay for me to hurt him so terribly with what I said. “You put a hole in my heart!” He shouted. I was sobbing. I couldn’t stop. How do you say that to a seven- year old? How would a seven- year old know any better? I was speaking my mind just as any seven- year old would. I figured it was better to tell him the truth than to lie. His voice grew louder and louder. My mom quickly realized that something was wrong. She was only 100 feet away from me on the deck. She stood up from her seat. She saw my wet, tomato-red face. She thought I had been stung by a bee. My grandma was on the deck too. She knew I hadn’t been stung; she knew that the situation was much worse than that.

“Christina, were you stung by a bee?” I remember my mom calling down and asking me that. I promptly told her no, and continued to cry. “You put a hole in my heart!” My father yelled again. This time, my parents heard. They ran down to the grass. My parents tried to change the topic. They said we should go on a bike ride. Later in life, my mom told me that she offered the bike ride in order to make sure my father couldn’t get me alone with him. She told me that on the bike ride, he tried to get me to go off to the side and talk with him. Luckily, my parents didn’t allow him to do that. It wasn’t because they didn’t want him to convince me to live with him; they simply didn’t want him to hurt me. After the bike- ride was over, he left. I never saw him again. My mom would set up visitation meetings at the DYFS office, but he never showed up. His absence was quite a relief for me. I was terrified of him. I didn’t want him to yell at me again; I felt so guilty, and I told my mom that I didn’t want to see him because of that. I guess I was lucky, because I never had to. I never said goodbye to him. But I didn’t need to. I feel as though it’s my punishment to him. I’ll never allow him to have the closure he desires. I don’t think he deserves it. Over the years, he would send my parents death threats. He would stalk me too. Most recently, he wrote a book. I couldn’t get past the sixth chapter. Want to know why? It sucks. It’s truly terrible. Not only is the whole thing a lie, but it’s terribly written. I hate him, and for that reason I’ll never talk to him again. I don’t care what he wants. I don’t care that he’s my father. He doesn’t deserve anything from me. I’m glad I’ll never have to say goodbye, let alone hello to him. I hope I never have to see him again. The ending of our relationship is the only “end” I appreciate in my life. Aside from that, “the end” is still terrible. The worst end of all else, however, was my adoptive grandma’s. She’s been gone for a year. She passed away last October, and I never got to say goodbye. The week that she passed, I told my mom that I had a cold, and that I couldn’t go to the hospital to visit her. In all honesty, I didn’t want to see her like that. I was too scared to. I was too scared of “the end.” All of my cousins got to see her before she died. I stayed home and cried instead. I listened to far too much Mazzy Star, The Smiths, and Radiohead (Only the sad stuff, of course). My mom came home from the hospital one night and told me that grandma would be gone in the morning. I didn’t know how to handle that information. I didn’t know how to feel. I climbed into my bed and put on a playlist I had made to get through hard times. “Northern Downpour,” by Panic, at the Disco, came on. Hey, moon, please forget to fall down. Hey, moon, don’t you go down.

I sobbed, obviously. I lost it. I didn’t want the day to end. If morning didn’t come, my grandma wouldn’t die. I prayed and prayed and prayed that my grandma would get better. I threw coins in fountains and wished upon stars, just like when my biological mom passed away from breast cancer. I guess God didn’t get my pennies again. The next morning, much to my surprise, my grandma was still alive. I thought maybe, just maybe, she could make it. Maybe God had listened. Maybe my coins were just on back order. Maybe they got lost in the mail, but were finally delivered. My mom came home at 3:30 that afternoon. “She’s gone.” I collapsed on my floor. Natural causes. Nothing about death is natural. Nothing about “the end” is natural. It’s life, but that doesn’t mean it has to be natural. Natural to me means normal, and life isn’t normal. I let so much go to the wayside after she passed. I’ve always struggled with anxiety and depression, but those pre-existing conditions flared up during this time. I remember not wanting to eat. I wouldn’t get hungry. Food didn’t interest me anymore. Everything tasted grey. Everything looked grey. Life was completely devoid of color. I went from dressing like your average try- hard, pretentious hipster to wearing the same sweats every single day. It was hard, to say the least. I got through the wake just fine; the funeral was the big issue. I remember when my sister and I went up to say our final goodbyes before they brought her to the church for the funeral. We sobbed over her. We had been fine throughout the entire week but crashed and burned when it came to the final goodbye. We knew at that moment that everything had truly ended. She was gone, and there was no bringing her back. After years of living with us, after years of our mornings and nights together, after all of our talks, after all of her advice, she was gone. We were always close. When she passed away, it felt like a part of me left my soul. I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to be five again. I wanted to run up the stairs to her little apartment above our house, sit on her rug and ask her for a peanut butter sandwich like I used to. But I couldn’t. It felt as if I were in some alternate reality. For once, I wanted the world to end. I wish I had said goodbye. I wish I had some sort of closure. But, I really don’t think my grandma wanted anyone to see her in her condition. She hated when she was sick. More than that, she hated when people would come to see her when she was sick. She would get embarrassed. I like to think that when she passed, she was thankful I didn’t come during her last few days. I think she wanted me to remember her the way she was before she was sick. I think

she wanted me to remember her as the woman who stood up for me, cared for me, made peanut butter sandwiches for me, watched Hallmark movies with me. I miss her, but maybe it’s okay that I didn’t say goodbye. Maybe it’s okay that I didn’t say goodbye to my mother too. As I said before, goodbye signifies the end, and the idea of the end terrifies me. I strongly believe that my mother and my grandma are with me everywhere I go. When someone dies, there’s no need to let go of them. There’s no need to say goodbye, because they aren’t going to go anywhere. They stay with you forever. My whole life I’ve struggled with that. Up until recently I believed that I needed to let go of those I lost. But now I know that’s not necessary. You can hold onto the memories. You can hold onto their essence. Letting go is forcing yourself to pretend that everything is okay. But after over a decade of loss, pain, depression and anxiety, I’ve come to realize that it’s okay to admit that nothing is okay. It’s okay to admit that life sucks. It’s okay to admit that “the end” sucks. It’s okay to admit that “goodbye” is the worst word in the entire world. Within all those admissions is the secret to getting better, the secret to becoming a happier person. I admit that I don’t know that secret yet. I don’t know the secret because I’m still learning. I also think that the secret is different for every single one of us. For now, I’m going to try to live my life. I’m going to try my best to ignore the word “goodbye” because there is no need for anything ever to end. “Goodbye” is a bad word. It should be the only censored word in the English dictionary. Why? Because things keep going. No one is ever really gone. We all just go to new places. n

THE DIARY Katherine Vandermel

Bergen County Academies

Removed from the publication at the request of the author

PERSONAL ESSAY

A STEW OF STICKS AND MUD: TALES OF A LOST BOYHOOD Jonathan Tenenbaum

Tenafly High School

PERSONAL ESSAY

play Word Mole or Brick Breaker on my dad’s Blackberry. I remember seeing projectors and blackboards give way to early forms of the Smartboard. Once you acknowledge the world surrounding childhood, it’s difficult to isolate a moment where it doesn’t exist, a moment where childhood feels untethered and personal. As I sat down to brainstorm my memoir on my Apple computer, listing the seeds of the newly digital world I saw in the years of my childhood, I became unable to separate the list from my youth. When did I truly feel like a kid? With some reflection and after Snapchatting my childhood friend Connor, the answer came clear as day. The most crucial moments of my childhood were founded at recess. Recess was a time for free expression. A time for social lines to be pushed and bent, to meet other kids, to run around aimlessly, to discover creepy crawlers beneath the soil’s surface, and to climb and hang from monkey bars. I grew up in Demarest and the first elementary school in Demarest is County Road School, limited only to kindergarteners and first graders. This isolation created an indestructible bubble of youth and childish exploration. I picked up my first “bad words” on the blacktop (i.e. stupid, dumb, idiot) and learned on the playground that conception occurs when a woman puts on a wedding ring. While my small elementary school featured a wooden playground, a set of monkey bars, a painted hopscotch court, and hoola hoops, the greatest attraction for elementary school scholars far and wide was rather unexpected. It bewildered the many teachers on recess duty who walked to check why such a massive group of first graders was standing in a circle instead of enjoying typical lunch break pastimes. It educated the student body on the value of teamwork far more than any team-building exercise or episode of the Backyardigans could. It spawned philosophical discussions among the first graders on its purpose and meaning. It existed as the cultural fulcrum of the playground dynamic. It started small, but grew far beyond what my buddies and I could ever have imagined in influence and value. It was glorious. It was… a muddy puddle by the park bench. After a particularly rainy spring morning, the puddle was birthed, like all beautiful and unimaginably important things, from chaos. The shrill call of the red,

t often feels strange or surreal to be the eldest of three siblings. I’m not referring to the responsibility of serving as a role model and precedent to my younger siblings nor the diligent duty of resident lab rat, being the first to go through the different levels of schooling, developmental changes, try new activities, and, in my family’s case, be born in the United States. I won’t discuss the unspoken benefits of older brotherhood, such as the starry-eyed respect from my younger siblings nor the constantly reminded pride of my parents, for both of whom I am overwhelmingly grateful. Rather, in recent times I’ve begun to contemplate the disparities in the childhoods of my siblings compared to my own. Childhood is often generalized as a wholesome stage of growth, entirely personal and individual, isolated from the world around it. However, the more I pick out differences in the early years of my siblings and myself, watching them progress through the same stages as I once had [ just weeks ago speaking at my brother’s bar mitzvah], the easier it becomes easy to perceive profound differences, products of a world undergoing rapid change. My childhood was raw and true, reminiscent of the era before it. Being born at the turn of the century was, and still is, an odd privilege. With the clash of developing technology and 90s nostalgia, Americana was truly at the center of an incessant tug-of-war. I was raised at the playground, at Little League ball- games and games of tag. I watched Elmo and the Wiggles in my infancy and grew up to Spongebob on cable while Cartoon Network faded from now-classics like Johnny Bravo and Courage the Cowardly Dog to its newer, glossier showlist. Netflix was a DVD mailing service, Amazon was strictly for books, Youtube was a lawless land, forbidden unless with parental approbation. Life was simpler, or at least it seemed so. I remember trips to the zoo. I remember rolling around on brightly-colored plastic scooter boards in gym class. I remember setting butterflies free in second grade. It’s easy to idealize childhood, to harumph at my little sister’s inherited tablet as an indicator of changing times. However, with a more critical eye, it’s easy to place the incipient phases of this 2010s modern childhood, one of video games and touch screens within the course of my own. I remember the popularity of games on the Wii and competing with friends on my DS. I remember begging to

metal bells led the first grade class running out a pair of beige doors in a frenzied stampede not unlike a pack of wild bison with the same enthusiasm as the settlers on the Oregon Trail, looking to take part in the gold rush that was thirty-six minutes of lightly-supervised bliss. In little time, as my friends and I gathered at our usual spot at the bench, without noticing a new addition to the meeting, a remarkably deep puddle filled nearly to the brim with murky, muddy water. At first it seemed of no importance; we went through our daily head- count before the fun could officially begin. Zachary? Check. Connor? Check. what? Nick? Check. Jeremy? Check. Andrew? Check. Impossibly amazing puddle that absolutely NEEDS to be explored? Check. Wait, We all looked at the puddle at once, magnetized by its beckoning obscurity. Without another word, Zach picked up a large stick lying behind the bench and dropped it vertically into the puddle. In one swift motion, it was gone, absent from this plane of the universe as if it had crossed into the mud dimension. The puddle let out a series of mysterious bubbles. In unison, we inhaled deeply, aware of both the gravity and potential of our discovery. “Guys… don’t tell anybody,” said Andrew. “I would never,” I said. “I won’t,” said Connor. “Neither will I,” said Nick. “No way,” added Zach. And so the pact was formed, nobody was to divulge the existence of this magical puddle. As soon as the silence threatened to linger, everyone rushed to grab whatever they could in a noisy bout of excitement to test the depth of the puddle. “A rock!” Jeremy shouted, dropping the stone into the infinite brown abyss. “This worm!” Nick exclaimed as his unfortunate, fleshy prisoner slowly sank into the muck. “A pencil!” I joined in, watching the writing device sink into the depths. “My left shoe!” Zach yelled with excitement, coating his sneaker in a healthy dose of mud before snatching it out of the puddle to prevent a permanent loss of his left Reebok. After what seemed mere seconds passed, we were called into the building for afternoon classes. Daydreaming my way through the remainder of the day, I went to bed jittery with excitement for the recess of experimentation to come. The following day, after yet another springtime bout of rain, we were shepherded out to the blacktop. I strolled to the bench for the routine attendance check with a newfound buoyancy in each step. Eyes on my black Puma shoes, I looked up to find more classmates than I had bargained for.

Zachary? Check. Connor? Check. Nick? Check. Jeremy? Check. Andrew? Check. Peter? Check. Haley? Check. Jessica? Check. Sandra? Check. Steven? Check. Gregory? Check. Gabriel? Check. Half of the grade? Check. Wait, what? Yes, one or sveral offenders had broken the pact, introducing the unwelcome attendees to the greatest elementary school spectacle my childhood world had ever seen. But, before I could become upset, I noticed that each classmate who had come to gaze at the wonder that was the puddle brought with him or her a token of sacrifice, a rock, coin, index card, or library book to submit to the muddy chasm of oblivion we had found. Item after item we watched plunge into filthy nothingness in innocent awe. In the days that followed, the crowd only grew. At one point, the entire grade gathered around the puddle, taking turns submitting a variety of schoolhouse knickknacks to trial by muddy puddle. Paper clips, post-it notes, and crusts off sandwiches gone forever with the excited cries of first graders sending them off on their journey into the void. The enjoyment lasted until one recess, after a dry May weekend, the puddle was gone. The water had evaporated and the pit filled in partially by dirt, the only evidence of the period of experimentation a dense muck of school supplies mixed in and cemented with dried mud. When reflecting on how rapidly life has changed with the expansion of technology’s influence and development, childhood can be hard to separate from the world around it. Kids raised in the 90s will note tamagotchis and Furbies. Children of the 80s remember cassette tapes and arcade games. It’s crucial to reflect not upon the material objects of a time period but the memories that make up who we are today. Spending lazy Sunday afternoons with my younger siblings, watching movies on Netflix on the Amazon Firestick, I often wonder what moments in my sister’s life will prove to be formative and what part in those moments this new, digital world will have in them. Much like a muddy puddle, life and the moments making it up can often be hard to understand or derive meaning from. Life is murky, mysterious, intriguing, and, every once in a while, a bit icky. In the end, when the waters of youth evaporate from sight, only the collection of memories and values cemented after rainy days of hardship and sunny days of growth will remain. Often, the most important of these memories are those gifted by those around us. While generational comparison is inevitable, there are few things more human than asking: when did I truly feel like a kid? Or better yet: when did I truly feel alive and at one with my inner freedom and sense of curiosity? n

10 YEARS Nicole Eisenberg

Northern Highlands Regional High School

t was way after my bedtime. I sat on the couch opposite to my dad in my pink dress and striped purple leggings as I looked out to the driveway. I watched all of my aunts and uncles and cousins pack up and pile into their cars after a long and lovely day together. Their car doors closed and their red tail lights became smaller and smaller as they pulled away until they were only a blip. I looked at my father for a brief moment; his face was blank but, when our eyes connected for a brief moment, he quickly turned away and gazed back at the TV as he heard pots and plates clang under the rush of warm water in the kitchen. We tend to use every dish we own when preparing for a family meal, and there are never enough. I rolled off the couch, passing my dad, and wandered over closer to the noise. My mother was standing barefoot on the cold marble tiles with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She was wearing purple gloves, and she was scrubbing a spatula with an old wire brush. The wire bristles scraped up and down against its metal surface and made a horrible noise that made my spine crawl. It didn't seem to bother her, but she was tough like that. I grasped my ears and let out a small uncomfortable squeal. My mother flinched and spun around, spatula still in hand. “What are you doing here?” She asked. “Why are you still up?” “I’m not tired,” I replied. She put down the spatula, which was still dripping, tilted her head to the side, and looked at me with soft, drained eyes as if to say Really? Now? She looked at my father who was still sitting in the living room. Her mouth opened as if she were about to speak, but she caught herself, changed her mind and left him alone. Her lack of a response informed me that she was in no mood to play around, so I told her that I would go upstairs and put on my pajamas. At this, she smiled and nodded as she turned to the sink to finish cleaning the spatula she had set down. I stood there for a moment and waited for her to turn back around, for her to say something more. She never did. I wanted something, but I didn’t know what. On the tips of my toes, I slowly began backing away. I didn’t want her to know that I had stayed behind.

PERSONAL ESSAY

I went upstairs and slipped into my Minnie Mouse tshirt dress. My dad had brought it back for me from one of his many business trips to Orlando. I climbed up onto my bed and lay down with my cold feet dangling off the side. Sleep felt foreign to my mind. My head was heavy, not a tired heaviness but a full heaviness, busy with thoughts and questions found only in the furthest corners of my mind. I lifted the weight of my head, then my body off the bed. My feet carried me to the stairs, the wooden floorboards creaking under the pressure of my steps. I stood at the top of the stairs for longer than any sixyear old should at eleven o’clock at night. I needed something, but I had no idea what. My mom must have known I had been standing there because she called out to me, “Why are you still awake?”. I told her again, “I’m not tired!”. The rush of the tap water halted, and I heard her walk into the living room and sit down on the old chair next to my dad, who was still watching his show. She spoke to him with words too soft for me to comprehend. The TV was shut off, and then he called out to me too, “Why don’t you come downstairs? We can read a story together.” I heard his words and they surprised me, but they sat comfortably in my chest, and I smiled. That sounded nice. I went to respond... but then I didn't. I didn’t know what to say. I sat at the top of the stairs in silence. He called out a second time, “Come downstairs. I’ll read you a story.” But again, I sat quietly and motionless at the top of the stairs; I was waiting for something, but I didn’t know what. I stared into the blankness of the wall that stood in front of me. I zoned out, until I heard the roar of the TV as he turned the game back on. I knew I had missed my opportunity, but still I continued to wait. I wanted something, but I didn’t know what. That night has long since passed. It has been ten years since my father asked me to read a story with him. My mom is still sitting in the living room, and I am still sitting at the top of those stairs. Waiting. My mother, for a man to hold her again, and I, to hear the words “I love you” from an empty seat on the couch. n

WIND Katherine Vandermel

Bergen County Academies

Removed from the publication at the request of the author

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BEIGNET BREES Sylvie Adams

Bergen County Academies

e was an overgrown baby, all smooth at the palms. But his face was freckled and greasy. Hands limp at his sides, the boy leaned back as if a seat would catch him if he’d go just a little further. The bike jerked and rattled pretty crazily, but he was unbothered and reasonably well balanced. His right palm drummed at his side and stung a little when the lips of his lashes scraped against one another. Mr. Beignet Brees didn’t mind much, though. In fact, he barely felt the scratchy little wisps on his knuckles. Beignet whistled a jaunty little tune, the kind that jumped around and off the walls. It went all through the neighborhood, ringing off the rusted wind- chimes of the Widow Hallothrope’s broken porch. Her husband was too crotchety to fix anything up, even before he got sick. Mr. Hallothrope wasn’t even dead, but everyone called his wife a widow. Beignet guessed that it might be the case because of the woman’s grim demeanor. She didn’t yell or act unfriendly; actually, she was a pretty nice neighbor and paid Beignet decently for fixing her mailbox that one time. It was more that you could tell she hurt a little more than the rest of them and felt misgivings too personally. Beignet looked ahead pointedly, afraid the old bat would call him over. Normally he’d think better of poor Widow Hallothrope, but he didn’t feel much like giving his heart to anybody right then. His whistle slowed and rang out a little sharper. Beignet rubbed at his broken hands a bit, spitting on them and grinding his saliva in thoroughly. His wheel cycled a little faster, picking up speed as Beignet noted the setting sun. He was afraid of what his Ma’d do if he was late again. Knowing his Ma, she’d probably damage him something worse. Beignet had been dawdling too long then and felt his whistle burst out in heaving, uncontrollable gasps. He passed the corner of Benson Street and did a little hoot when he saw Tiny Tim breezing by on his paper route. “How’d you get to the office so quick, huh?” Beignet badgered the kid a bit, happy to pick on the youngster. “I don’t lean back and sing to little birdies is what!” Tiny called out. Beignet howled with laughter, scaring the younger kid a bit with all his hooting and wheezing. Most people didn’t like Beignet’s giggling much. It forced them to recall a foul- natured goose making that same sound as he chased down poor Mr. Petri five years ago. The guy was in bed for weeks recovering from his injuries. That wasn’t

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enough time to get better in other ways, though. Afterwards, Mr. Petri breathed just a little too hard, as if he had a honk emanating from him. People swore the man was about to up and sprout a bunch of tail feathers and flap all over the place any second. Tiny sped by, leaving Beignet wheeling on down his street. His Ma was in the window, setting out some sweet plum pie on the sill. Those bulbous, purple fruits popped and sizzled as they cooled, drawing Beignet’s feet a little faster on the pedal. His Ma always said that, if she stopped baking her pies, he’d have no reason to come home at all. “Hey, Benny!” Ma called out, flapping her apron about. “Hi, Ma! What yah got cookin’?” “Pot roast,” she glanced up at her boy as he leaned his bike against the front porch. “What happened to your hands, hm?” “Oh, you know, Mr. Tert’s just getting all red again ‘bout my penmanship. He doesn’t seem too keen on reading anything of mine ‘cause it’s too sloppy,” Beignet shrugged and swiped an apple from his Ma’s purple bowl. “You better practice, Benny. What’s the point in going to school if you’re just gonna mouth off. Maybe you should start at your Pa’s shop next year. You’ve already gotten further than he ever did in learning and all that.” “Yeah, maybe I should.” He chomped on his apple, mouth full and juice dribbling down his chin. Ma swiped the runny excess off with her thumb. “You spit on it?” Benny nodded at her. “Well, you go and rake the barn, and I’ll set out some soaked bandages for when you get back in.” His Ma patted him on his behind a little, letting him know he should get going or there might not be much of anything to come back to. Beignet lumbered over to his family’s peeling barn, grinding open the doors with great effort. He struck a match, lighting up the darkening room. The pigs were still out in the yard eating, so he got busy before his Pa sent them in and they ate his shoes again or something like that. Beignet set about doing everything quickly, finishing a few minutes before his Ma’d even suspect. He put his rake aside and took out the folded piece of paper he’d stuffed in his overalls. Mr. Tert didn’t much care for thieves, even less than he did for Beignet, but the boy thought it worth the risk. He’d already used up all the paper his parents had bought him for school. Pa didn’t like him going there much; paying any more for paper would

probably drive him up a wall. Beignet slid out the piece of charcoal caught between the teeth of two wooden panels and started copying down all the new words he’d learned that day, ones like “meloncolly” or “ebullyent.” He wrote them all down, all the ones he remembered not understanding. Mr. Tert sometimes used big words so he could make his students see how smart he was. It was pretty much the only thing Beignet liked about him. Beignet sounded the new words out and committed them to memory, so he could pop them out in class. He could see his schoolmates awed at how good he sounded, but he didn’t do it for them. Beignet liked the way those

fancy syllables rolled off his tongue and suggested big meanings. He didn’t actually remember what they meant, but “fat” sounds pretty much spoke for themselves. He tucked the list between the wooden teeth again, leaving it next to the other scraps he’d used up. Beignet could hear his Ma telling Pa about him getting in trouble again. “He’s too stupid for school! He’s gonna lose any talent he’s got with his hands if we keep sending him.” His Pa went on, saying how he didn’t even finish the alphabet but could still provide for his family. Ma agreed and started talking about Beignet going to work at the shop. Beignet traced little words in the dirt with a toothpick. He didn’t want to waste anymore good paper. n

GREEN STANDS FOR STARTING OVER Eva Nahass

Paramus Catholic High School

re you sure you have to go?” Allie asked, tugging lightly on the sleeve of her boyfriend’s jacket. “We haven’t really been apart since we got together, and I know it’s only two weeks but it’s gonna feel like forever.” James shouldered his bag. “I know, Birdie. But you know I have to go. We’ll talk every night, okay? Don’t forget to call at nine. You have a nice stay- at- home project for work, and there’s enough food in the house that you won’t have to leave to go grocery shopping.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then turned to towards the door. “Be good.” Allie giggled, watching his strawberry-blonde hair ruffle in the wind as he crossed the doorway of their condo and stepped into the chilly October air. “Bye!” she called.“Love you!” All she got in return was the revving of a motor. Allie closed the door, fighting the wind as it fought to enter the house. She locked the door, then the deadbolt. The house was silent. It was strange, she thought. She’d never been home without James before, at least not for more than a few hours. It was quiet. She sat down and turned on the TV. +++ On the third day, Allie woke up to a message from her sister. It was late, later than James would have let her sleep in, if he knew. She decided that she just wouldn’t tell him. The thought was strangely exhilarating. “Hey, Als, what’s up?” Allie put the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she got out of bed, quickly straightening the sheets, and reorganizing the pillows into their usual spread. “I wasn’t expecting a phone call today, Steph, but it’s nice to hear from you.” Allie stood in front of the mirror, her phone now in her hand as she finger brushed her light brown hair. “Is your creepy boyfriend home?” Stephanie asked over the phone. Allie cringed at the loud volume of her voice and turned the volume down. “James? No, he’s at that work conference. I told you that last week.” She put her phone down onto her dresser and put it on speaker. “And he’s not creepy.” “Anyone who keeps you on a schedule is creepy, Al. Just letting you know. But anyway, what are you going to do now that you have time to do whatever you want?” “Today? Well, I was going to try and get the first half

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of my project done. I know it’s not due until next week, but I don’t really want to watch any more TV, and I have everything I need here.” “Come on, Als. you know that’s not what I was asking. For fun? What are you doing for fun?” Stephanie paused. “Let’s go out for drinks, you and me. Tonight. We can get dressed up, go out. You know, like we used to.” Allie didn’t miss the murmured “before you met James” her sister added at the end of her proposition. “I don’t think I’m up for drinks. And James doesn’t like it when I drink.” On the other end of the phone, Steph sighed. “Okay, fine, no drinks. Lunch then? You haven’t seen my new hair yet, and it’s literally the coolest so far.” Allie considered it for a second. She went out with Steph all the time. Well, sometimes. And he was usually there, but she was family. James shouldn’t be mad. “Okay, lunch.” “Yes, finally! Where do you want to go?” “You pick. It's not important to me.” “Allie, if you don’t pick, I’m dragging you to a club.” Allie winced. It was second nature to insist her wants didn’t matter. James usually expected her to let him pick. “Okay, fine. The place at the mall that we used to go to as kids.” “Great,” Steph said. “I’ll pick you up at noon.” Allie looked at the clock. It was quarter past ten in the morning. “Thank you, Stephanie. I love you.” +++ Allie was wrong. James was furious when she told him later that night that she had gone out with her sister. But she was confused. If going out to lunch and then shopping with Steph made her happy, why shouldn’t she do it? Stephanie had even bought her a cropped t-shirt that she’d said brought out her dark green eyes. Allie had picked a dress for Steph to wear at a friend’s wedding. It was a dark pink; it matched her hair. +++ On Thursday morning, four days after she had spent the day with her sister, Allie decided on pancakes for breakfast. When she pulled the carton of eggs out of the fridge, it had only two, one less than the recipe she hoped to follow. If James was home, she likely would have made them into scrambled eggs, and toasted a piece of his favorite bread, usually the only kind they had in the house.

“A

Allie was about to put the toast in the toaster when she decided to go shopping. She walked into her room and tugged on a pair of dark jeans and a plain oversized t-shirt and headed towards her door. A flash of green caught her eye. Allie looked in the mirror, then back at the green shirt, still hanging clean and brand new on its hanger. She hadn’t touched it since getting off the phone with an angry James. Maybe she’d live dangerously for once. Allie pulled it off the hanger. +++ On Monday, Allie was restless. Usually, James would have taken her out to eat on Sunday for dinner, his favorite seafood restaurant. She didn't enjoy it very much, but he always seemed so happy afterwards, even when she did something that upset him. She’d knocked his knife off the table once, and he was furious, but he was in a good mood after they ate anyway. Allie closed her laptop, her project long finished. It was evening, but not yet sunset. She stood up. If James could take her to dinner, Allie decided she could go herself. She walked upstairs and picked the lone green dress hidden among a sea of reds. James liked it when she wore red. Allie called a car, and was seated immediately upon entering the restaurant. She sat at a small booth, but the restaurant was nearly empty. Only a family with small children and a young couple sat nearby. A waiter came by with water. Allie thanked him. She didn’t know why she had picked the seafood place. She never really liked it. A few minutes in, the woman sitting at the table across the room elbowed a wine glass, splashing the liquid across the table and onto her dress. The glass itself rolled off of the table and shattered. Allie tensed, waiting for the yelling that never came. Instead, the man got up and walked around the glass to the other side of the table and spoke quietly to the woman, who was patting the new stain on her dress with the black cloth napkin. The man guided her away from the glass and flagged down a waiter to help him get it cleaned up. Allie stared. The last time she dropped a glass, James had been furious at her for ruining her

dress and told her to pick up the shards of glass scattered under the table. Why did no one else do that? Why was that woman treated better than she was? Allie remembered her sister’s insistence. He’s a creep, she said. Allie stood up, dinner all but forgotten. “Ma’am?” The waiter asked, approaching her table. “Do you want to order?” Allie turned towards the door. “No, thank you. I... I have something I need to do.” The moment the hired car arrived at her house, Allie jumped out, barely sparing a moment to thank the driver before rushing upstairs into her room– their room. She pulled a duffle bag out of her closet and looked around. After a year of living together, Allie had gotten accustomed to her surroundings. Now, the only things she knew were hers were the jewelry box on the dresser and two of the pillows on the bed. She grabbed one and dropped it next to the duffel bag before grabbing her clothes from the dresser and stuffing them in. She unplugged her computer charger and tossed it on top before zipping the bag and putting the strap over her shoulder. Allie dialed Steph’s number with shaking fingers. Steph answered on the second ring. “Hey, what’s--?” “You were right.” Allie said. “What are you talking about? Right about what?” “About James, me, everything. I want to leave. Now.” “I’ll be there in five minutes.” Steph must have realized the gravity of the situation because, for once, her voice was completely serious. “Okay.” Allie walked downstairs, tossed her computer into her work bag, tugged her phone charger out of the wall, and pulled on her jacket. Steph had gotten it for her. It was green. Allie looked around. The room she had spent so much time in had an entirely new meaning. The dark tan walls were a prison. The art on the walls screamed captivity. She picked up her pillow, grabbed her work bag, and slung her duffel bag over her shoulder before walking out into the cool evening. Allie didn’t look back. n

WALKING HOME WITH A PEACH ICED TEA IN THE SUMMER Ye Zin Cho

Bergen County Academies

alking home with a peach iced tea after school in the summer, your hands wrap around the cool aluminum can, your bare feet making contact with the sizzling heat of the summer asphalt. You swerve around the flickering street lamps and the smoking adults. You skip around the cracks and edges of the road, feeling like a little kid running home after school. You suddenly trip over a small rock and look down at the mess on your clothes. You worry that your parents will notice the stain. Your months' worth of savings from delivering the local newspaper in the neighborhood are gone in a mere second. It took you 137 days to collect the nickels that you’ve snuck into your pocket before handing your earnings over to your parents every week to buy the iced tea. You ignore the stinging pain of others’ glances, their murmurs and whispers, their negligence of your pain. You let the blood ooze from the scratch on your knee onto the sweltering asphalt. You’re looking at the can only, your months' worth of savings, the one sweet sip you had before you started running home to your younger brothers so they could have their first taste of peach iced tea. You blame your useless teenage growth spurt for clumsily tripping over a small rock, something that you haven’t done since you were five. You miss the feel of the cool against your hand, and you want the stares of the adults to stop, stop staring at the spilled iced tea, stop staring at your shaggy bob, stop staring at your torn t-shirt, which you haven’t changed of since last Tuesday. Stop staring at your pain. You slowly pick yourself up, shaking the can with a lingering hope that maybe your peach iced tea is still in there. It isn’t. You walk home defeated, your legs sticky and your shirt now stained with the residue of the iced tea. You walk in the door, hoping that your mother doesn’t notice. But she does. Your mother asks you about your day. You keep your head down. She says your brothers are outside. You nod. She takes your hand and simply says, “It’s sticky, go wash it before your brothers smell it. Change your shirt before your father sees it.” You put down your head in disappointment, not at yourself for not covering well from your mother but at yourself for thinking of hiding something from your mother.

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You play with your younger siblings out in the small patch of grass that you call a backyard. You watch the sun set in the backyard and hear the soft rustling of the summer breeze as you walk back into your house. You don’t eat dinner because you’ve gotten used to saving the few cans of soup in the cupboard for your brothers. The sweetness of the peach iced tea still lingers in your mouth and you’re glad that you’ve had at least one sip. The smell of the tangy tomato soup wafts to your nose and you have to walk into the room that you share with your brothers to ignore the emptiness in your stomach, the ceaseless groans of your body as it craves something to fill the emptiness. You think of people with eating disorders, wondering how someone could possibly force themselves to not eat when they are fortunate enough to afford three meals a day for each of the family members. You’re lying on top of the old mattress in the room that you share with your brothers. You’ve changed out of the stained shirt, which is now drying by the window. You already know that today can’t be one of the good days. You’ve spilled your peach iced tea and your father just came home drunk. You hear his staggered footsteps before you smell the alcohol. You’ve known the smell of alcohol ever since you’ve known how to walk. It’s the toxic smell of cigarettes and alcohol that gets you drunk on losing yourself in your fantasies. You imagine nothing wrong, a perfect world where you and your siblings and your mother can escape to a place where there is no hunger, no drunken person who calls himself your father, no financial worries, no spilled peach iced teas. You imagine a small family, gathered around the dinner table, the father passing a bowl of pasta to his children, gentle laughs heard through the window of the dining room. You don’t flinch as you hear the glass shattering in the living room, the cries of your younger siblings, the desperate voice of your mother as she begs him to stop: Stop drinking. Stop throwing. Stop and look at yourself. Look at how much our children suffer from this. But he doesn’t stop. You wait, dead silent on the old mattress, waiting for something bigger, something more dangerous than throwing wine glasses against the wall. You’re just waiting for the next two years when you can walk out of this house as an adult and not deal with your father. You try not to think of your brothers and your mother.

peach iced tea would change something, let you have a taste of something different. But you’ll never fully understand their world. You grew up this way. You’ve gotten used to the endless calls to the police only to hear that your mother has declined all the statements you’ve made, that the bruises were from falling down the steps. You’ve gotten used to the screaming not only just from your house but also from every house in the neighborhood. It’s how you’ve grown up, despite the endless prayers that you were part of another family, a family that was more loving, rich, better off, unlike yours. But you don’t know the world beyond this small corner on 5th Street. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and have a full breakfast before going to school, worry about what to wear to school that day, stress about the college application, have a snack before heading to track practice, feel comfortable in your own house. You don’t know how others would feel if they spilled peach iced tea, something that took you months to save up for. You don’t know and you’ll never know because, to you, childhood was about worrying over spilled peach iced teas.n

Once you hear the strike of skin hitting skin, you storm out of your room and lunge at your father. You hit before you have time to fear that he’ll smell the lingering peach iced tea on your hands. You do this almost every day yet you always have to convince yourself that he’s not your father when he’s drunk, he never was your father. You don’t feel the sting of your skin as he clumsily slaps you for interrupting him or the blood oozing from your feet as you step over the broken glass shards. You see your mother taking your brothers out to the backyard where you played hide- and- seek with them just a few hours ago. You know that she’ll walk them to the neighborhood playground in a few minutes. After you’ve put your past-out father on the couch, you walk over to the playground, your knuckles aching, your muscles tense from the encounter. You see your mother pushing your brothers on the swing, both of them with large smiles on their faces, kicking their feet up to reach the moon. You silently walk over and push your brothers higher and higher together. You know you’ll never be able to reach that high. You gave up on trying a few years ago. You thought that the

A CONVERSATION WITH THE STRANGER Brandon Hwang

Ramsey High School

DRAMA

John walks into the cafe. He saunters to the line, where at least a dozen people are ahead of him. He looks around at the floral decorations, reunions of couples and friends. His eyes land on her eyes.

John adjusts his seat.

Amy: Hello John, you want the same decaf coffee as usual?

Grace: I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’ve ever met you before.

John smiles.

John: You don’t remember? We were at the college graduation two years ago. You congratulated me, don’t you remember?

John: Oh, we’ve met a couple times before, but I think you’ve forgotten.

John: Amy, you’re the best. John reaches into his pocket for his wallet, pulls out a crinkled five dollar bill, and places it into Amy’s hand. Amy looks John straight in the eyes.

Grace: I’m sorry. It’s been far longer than two years since I last attended a college graduation. John: Well, my college graduation isn’t the only time we’ve met. Don’t you remember the time you came to my senior year drama performance?

Amy: Has she gotten better? John: We’ll have to see for today. Thanks for asking.

Grace: I’m sorry, Jake, but I don’t remember you. Amy: Yeah... I just want to see some happiness between you two, you know?

John: It’s John.

John: I hope so too.

There is a pause. They look in different directions for a few seconds. John looks down at the concrete floor of the café, then at the clock. Grace avoids looking at John until finally she speaks.

Amy: I’ll call you over like usual. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Grace: Well, I may not have known you in the past, but maybe we could introduce ourselves again? Grace smiles.

The cafe is unusually packed for a Monday. The tables and seats are all occupied, except a single chair facing the woman.

John returns the smile, his eyes still fixed on the concrete floor. John: Hello, is this seat taken? I’m sorry if I am interrupting you.

John (looks up at Grace): I suppose we can. My name’s John. I work here in the city.

She looks up at him with lethargic eyes. Grace: Interesting. What do you do? Woman: No. John: I work for a consulting firm, it’s a twenty- minute walk from here.

John seats himself. He lays his hands on top of the Victorian table, motioning to greet her.

Grace: That must be a good job,; you must be intelligent. John: My name’s John. It’s nice to meet you. I believe I’ve met you before. You’re Grace, right?

John nods his head as she speaks.

Woman (reluctantly shakes his hands): Yeah, how’d you know?

Grace: But what makes you walk twenty minutes to this cafe?

Lila: John, we have to be patient. It’s going to be difficult for all of us.

John: I was supposed to meet someone. Grace: Oh, I see.

John (tears in his eyes): How many times do I have to pretend like this?

John: So what about you, Grace? Lila: It’s not easy John, but we have to help. Grace: Well, I don’t really know what to say. There’s nothing special about me.

John: I’m having a conversation with a stranger, Lila. She’s not my mother!

John: Are you married? Lila: How can you even say that? She's sick, John. She’s clouded, and she’s estranged from the rest of our family because of this, this sickness.

Grace: No, I don’t believe I’m married. John hunches in his chair.

John: The doctor says it’s pointless. It’s been a goddamn year. Each day she’s getting worse and worse. The medications don’t work; nothing is working. Nothing!

John: So, you don’t have children? Grace: No, I don’t think I would be a good mother, anyway.

Lila: John, please. We beg you.

Amy calls John’s name from the counter.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

John: I think my coffee is ready. Could we continue the conversation when I get back?

John opens the do. He moves quickly away from the long line. His mother looks at him.

Grace: By all means.

Grace: Who were you calling outside? Is everything all right? I saw you cry.

John rises from his seat. John (fake chuckles): Everything’s all right Grace. Thanks for asking. It’s just a family member is ill.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– John walks to the end of the cafe’s countertop and picks up the coffee. He looks around for the coffee lid but instead of going back to Grace for the moment, he moves outside. The fresh air of the city fills his lungs. He takes out his phone and calls someone.

Grace: Oh, who?

Lila: John, what happened? John: She doesn’t remember.

John (his voice quivers): She loves me, I know she does. Her sickness prevents her from recognizing her loved ones. It’s isolated her.

Lila: What do you mean? What hasn’t she remembered?

Grace: John, my prayers go out to you and your family.

John: Lila, she doesn’t even remember my name.

John drinks the coffee, which has cooled and begins to speak.

Lila: John...

John: Grace?

John: She doesn’t even remember the name of her own son! She forgot about the graduation she had been looking forward to her whole life! She forgot that she’s even married, Lila!

Grace: Yes?

John: My mother. Grace: I am so sorry.

John: This isn’t the only time we’ve spoken. Grace: What do you mean? This is the first time I am

John: We talked yesterday.

John: You raised me as a single parent, worked to support both me and Lila. We both live happy lives because of what you did, mom. Please, believe me.

Grace: What?

Grace motions for her handbag.

John. Yesterday.

John: In that case, I think it’s best that I leave too.

Grace: I don’t know what you’re saying, John.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

John: Grace, I’ve spoken with you every day this week. The same cafe, at the same time, the same conversation. At this point, I’ve always revealed one thing to you, can you remember?

John follows as Grace leaves the cafe.

meeting you.

Grace walks around looking at the sky. She moves toward the rusted entrance of the subway. John looks onward with tears forming in his eyes.

Grace: No, and we’ve never talked before! John: I hope we don’t refer to each other as strangers tomorrow, mom.

John: Grace, as crazy as this might seem to you, you are my mother. You have a daughter named Lila. Last year you were diagnosed with –

The winter wind flows throughout the city, the sun’s glow disappearing from the sky.

Grace (interrupting, with an angry voice): John, please stop. You’re a stranger I don’t even know. How could I be your mother? I am sorry. I have to be somewhere right now.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

WHEN THE LEVEE BREAKS Amelie Caceres

ZEPPELIN HANNE, SUBCONSCIOUS (SC), MRS CRUSHNIK, MR CRUSHNIK, ABNER QUILL, CHARLIE FOREMAN, MAMA JOOMOMBA,

Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

CHARACTERS (in order of appearance) teenager with sleep paralysis, capable of astral projection projection of ZEPPELIN HANNE in sleep form; his conscience deranged Chemistry teacher with murderous tendencies leaving his wife for another woman hippie best friend, emancipated Hispanic teen another friend, a very daring redhead a questionable psychic

SCENE 1 -- TRAVELLING RIVERSIDE BLUES INT. BEDROOM-- NIGHT A single twin bed towards stage right, ZEPPELIN is sitting down, about to go to bed. SUBCONSCIOUS is hiding under his bed. At stage left, there is a second room with a double bed and a sleeping figure. A dim spotlight falls upon ZEPPELIN. The action starts.

MR CRUSHNIK You can’t control me all of the damn time!

MRS CRUSHNIK Well, you can’t just walk in here this late and act like everything is okay! Who were you with?

ZEPPELIN (Turns only his head to face the audience, breaking the fourth wall. Matter-of-factly)

SC (Sighing. SC gets up and walks towards his window. To himself )

I should probably start this off by saying that my nap time schedule is pretty much a steaming load. See, I suffer from sleep paralysis. Which basically means that, if at any moment I fall asleep, my mind could wake up before the rest of my body. Yup, my life is pretty sucky.

Mr. and Mrs. Crushnik are going at it again. If I was married to that witch, I’d probably walk in at 3 A.M. too. Serves her right for assigning us twenty pages of homework during Hell Week. (The screaming continues. SC walks out of the room to listen better. The two adults have also walked outside now. MR has a suitcase in his hands.)

(turns away, fearfully gets into bed, pushing away a pile of homework) Please, not tonight.

MRS (In nightgown and hot pink hair rollers, one arm hidden behind her back)

(Pulls covers over him and falls asleep) SUBCONSCIOUS (crawls out from under bed, tries to shake ZEPPELIN awake Defeated)

You good for nothing bastard! You can’t leave me like this! What do you expect me to do, huh!

Wake up! Wake up! Why does this always happen to us?!

MR Well, Kathy, I’m sure you can continue to suck the life out of everyone around you without me here! You’re certainly not good at sucking anything else.

(Spotlight shifts to stage left. A man walks into the other bedroom, and the sleeping figure wakes up. They begin viciously to yell at each other. Loud sounds of arguing from next door.)

SC Dang…

MRS If you try to get into that car, I’ll shoot you, Harold. I swear to God.

SC (walking in from right stage, rubbing his chest in pain, pouting)

MR Shoot me then, woman. I’ll see you in hell.

It did just happen. Come on, we just saw her put a bullet through her husband. And me! And it friggin’ hurts, man. (SC sits on bed, so they are back to back on either side)

MRS (pulls out a gun from behind her back)

ZEPPELIN Even if it is true, it happened while I was asleep. There’s no way for me to prove that we saw anything. Could have hallucinated the whole thing.

Screw you, Harold! SC (running in front of MR. MR and MRS cannot hear SC) No! Mrs. Crushnik, stop, what are you doing?!

(mocking) Walking out of my body while I sleep. Well, it’s more of an art form than an exact science.

MR Wh-what are you doing? Where did you get a gun?

SC Don’t be a daft potato. Go outside. There has to be proof out there that this wasn’t just a dream.

MRS (Tearing out her hair rollers, and throwing them onto the ground)

ZEPPELIN I have worked long nights, grading papers, and trying so hard to be good enough for you. But all you care about is yourself! I’ve had enough of you, Harold. You think you can do whatever you want without giving a shit! Huh! Well, not anymore!

But I don’t wanna. (ZEPPELIN walks out of his room, towards center stage. SC disappears into stage right, leaving.) ZEPPELIN (searching for any sign of a body. Unaware SC has left him)

SC (Tries to step in front of MRS and shakes her) What the hell, Mrs. Crushnik! Stop!

Psst, I can’t see a body around here. Hey! Where did you go

MR You’re insane. You don’t have the balls to do it, Kathy! You psychotic bitch--

(looks around nervously and starts walking back to his house.) Screw this. I’m out.

(MRS pulls the trigger and falls back. Both SC & MR are struck)

(stumbles over an object on the floor. Bends down and picks it up.)

(SC & MR are sent tumbling backwards into the right wing. MRS runs out left wing. Spotlight quickly pans onto ZEPPELIN asleep in his bed.)

What the hell is this? A hair roller (Turns towards the audience and holds up a hot pink hair roller. Realization dawns.)

ZEPPELIN (Wakes up screaming and jumps out of bed. Whispers, mumbling)

ZEPPELIN Crap nuggets.

Holy guacamole! Did that really just happen? No, it couldn’t have happened. Could it? I mean, I know Mrs. Crushnik is a crazy psycho monster… but not a murderer, right?

SC (SC runs onto center stage) Looks like this situation just got a lot more (puts on sunglasses) …hairy.

SCENE 2-- DAZED AND CONFUSED

ABNER (to CHARLIE, Chuckling sarcastically)

INT. DETENTION -- DAY Three student desks arranged in a diagonal row near stage right, and a teacher’s desk next to a chalkboard that reads DETENTION stage left. ZEPPELIN sits at the middle desk. Walking in from stage left and sitting down across from him, ABNER, who is wearing a classic rock band t-shirt.

Well, if it isn’t everybody’s favorite teacher’s pet. Mrs. Crushnik put you up to proctoring detention again? (CHARLIE nods as she sets down her bag. ABNER turns to gauge ZEPPELIN’s reaction) ABNER Why are you being such a spaz today, Zepp? And don’t give me that “I didn’t sleep“ crap, man. We’re high schoolers, we never get any sleep.

ABNER Sup, doofus! (ABNER slaps ZEPPELIN on the back of his head in a friendly greeting. ZEPPELIN does not seem to hear him and continues to stare down at his hands in grim silence.)

CHARLIE What’s wrong Zeppy? ZEPPELIN Guys, it’s something really bad.

ABNER Wassup with you today, man? ZEPPELIN (noticing ABNER. Defensively) I just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, okay?

(SUBCONSCIOUS walks in from stage right and stands behind ZEPPELIN.) CHARLIE All right Hanne, you better spill right now.

ABNER Yeah, me neither, man. It’s coz of Mrs. Crushnik, right?

ZEPPELIN Well, last night when I was sleeping something… different happened. ABNER (Scrunches up his face, jokingly)

ZEPPELIN W-What are you-- how did you know? ABNER How did I know about the gazillion paged packet that she assigned us for homework yesterday?

Dude, TMI.

ZEPPELIN Oh. You’re talking about the homework! Which is totally what I was also talking about. And not like… death… or whatever.

CHARLIE (punches Abner’s arm) Hush, Abner. Come on, spit it out, Z! What’s going on?

ABNER Are you high, or sumthin man?

(ABNER and CHARLIE suddenly freeze. Spotlight focuses on SC.)

CHARLIE (CHARLIE walks in from stage right, imitating MRS, in a stern tone)

SUBCONSCIOUS You gotta tell them what we saw. You can’t keep something like this to yourself. Don’t be a complete moron.

You meddling children, always being disruptive in detention! I have half a mind to get your names engraved onto those desks of yours, since you’re here so often (ZEPPELIN thinks that it is actually MRS and jumps out of his chair. Charlie breaks character, laughs. ABNER and CHARLIE give ZEPPELIN a weird look.)

ZEPPELIN I can’t exactly go around telling people my teacher, that I hate more than anything in the world, murdered someone. They’ll all think I’m joking… or worse that I’m crazy. Besides, I don’t trust Mrs. Crushnik. She was always telling me and Abner we’re even worse than her hubby.

CHARLIE You know… because Mrs. Crushnik hates you guys’ guts.

SC Well, then, my friend, lemme tell you, that doesn’t bode

very well for you. If she hates you both more than her husband-- which she, yah know, shot-- then what’s stopping her from killing you?

CHARLIE I’ve heard of that in my psych class. What you’re talking about, it’s called astral projection.

ZEPPELIN Well, she wouldn’t kill us. Just because she always finds every possible way to catch us breaking the rules so she can toss us in this joint… that doesn’t mean she would kill us. Right?

ABNER Who cares, Bill Nye. What did you see?! ZEPPELIN I saw Mrs. Crushnik shoot her husband in the face, wearing her friggin nightgown and these weird hair thingadoos that flew off of her like she was a rabid porcupine.

SC Look babes, I’m just saying, if I was gonna end up dead as a doornail, I would want my friends to be able to avenge me. But they can’t do that without knowing. In fact, if I were the forty-something-year-old man who got shot by my wife, I would want said lunatic’s students to break into my house and prove that I was killed by the crazy curly haired sociopath. Specifically, a student named after a kickass band who, yah know, witnessed the entire friggin murder!

(CHARLIE & ABNER share a glance; CHARLIE looks very doubtful whereas ABNER looks ecstatic.) CHARLIE Come on, Zeppelin, Sleep paralysis and astral projection must be, like, extremely rare. And even if you think you did see something, there’s no way for you to be sure that it wasn't a dream.

ZEPPELIN Yeah. You’re right. It’s time to take down that old crone once and for all. After years of picking on us for not being able to balance chemical equations, she’s finally going to sleep with the fishes. And you’re going to help me do it!

ZEPPELIN (ZEPPELIN reveals the hair curler) I thought that too, but when I went outside to look and see if his body was still there, I found this.

SC Yeet. Not gonna happen there, slick. I’m outie.

ABNER That’s awesome, man! Bummer: it wasn’t Mrs. Crushnik who bit the dust though, man… I didn’t do that stupid Chemistry packet.

(Snaps fingers. CHARLIE and ABNER unfreeze. SC crosses the stage and sprawls across the teacher’s desk. He produces a large tub of popcorn and watches the others.)

(CHARLIE slaps ABNER’s arm, but ZEPPELIN is relieved.)

ZEPPELIN Something happened last night when I fell asleep. I couldn’t wake up.

ZEPPELIN So, you really believe me?

CHARLIE Yea, but that’s not different? We already know about your sleep paralysis.

ABNER Of course, man. I’ve been telling you conspiracies about Mrs. C since freshman year.

ZEPPELIN That’s not what I’m talking about! Can I just talk, please?

CHARLIE (CHARLIE pulls out her computer)

ABNER

I think that you guys are full of it... but I actually remember what Abner’s talking about. I’ve been logging Abner’s conspiracy theories, for, like, years.

Chill, man. Be cool. ZEPPELIN (ZEPPELIN runs his hands through his hair)

(CHARLIE pulls up a file on her computer and turns it to face her friends)

I can’t be, “cool” man, because I didn’t just get stuck last night. I’ve never told you guys this, but after I fall asleep, I continue to walk around outside of my body. And I saw something last night.

ZEPPELIN (ZEPPELIN raises his eyebrows in surprise, and ABNER looks very pleased with himself )

Why would you ever want to remember any of Abner’s conspiracies, Charlie? They’re all pipe dreams and psychedelic hate towards “the man.”

ZEPPELIN Hold on, why do you think that she has a gun in that drawer?

ABNER Don’t hate on me, dude. Besides, like you’re one to talk about dreams.

ABNER Well, man, I came in early for detention, and I saw her put something metallic into the drawer, and then she locked it. When she looked up and saw me, she had guilt written all over her face.

CHARLIE I know it’s kinda weird, but some of Abner’s ramblings were just too funny not to write down. And look at this, last year Abby actually did predict that Mrs. Crushnik was a murderer.

ZEPP That metal thing could have been anything. It could have been a stapler, right? Why do you just assume that it was a gun?

ZEPPELIN Yes, but he also said Coach Steven was a vampire.

ABNER Because afterward, Mrs. Crushnik was so shook, she told me that I didn’t have detention anymore, man.

ABNER Dude, don’t you think that it’s a little suspicious that the soccer coach who spends all of his time outside is that pale!

(ZEPPELIN & CHARLIE are visibly shocked. CHARLIE starts typing rapidly on her computer)

CHARLIE What about Principal Moony being a werewolf?

So, I keep thinking about it as I’m leaving, and whatever she was locking in her desk must have been seriously messed up if she let me out of detention!

ABNER He’s a hairy dude! And, in my defense, his name is Mr. Moon-y.

ZEPPELIN Woah… whatever she has locked in that drawer must be something pretty damning...

SC Can you get this show on the road? Mrs. Crushnik is going to be back any minute now.

(The blue spotlight fades and the actors return to the present) ZEPPELIN/ABNER/CHARLIE The drawer!

ZEPPELIN Guys, focus. Okay, Charlie, what did Abby say?

(They rush over to the desk. SC jumps off and walks around to join them) CHARLIE It says here …

CHARLIE Does anyone know how to pick a lock?

(A blue spotlight pans on them to indicate the past. Actors put on little accessories to indicate time change.)

SC (waving one arm mockingly in the air, only ZEPPELIN can hear him)

ABNER I swear to God, man, Mrs. Crushnik has a gun in her locked desk drawer.

Oh, me, me; pick me! I know how to pick a lock. Golly jeepers, I hope she picks me.

CHARLIE What? A teacher with a gun? That would be completely reckless! Why on earth would it be a good idea for a teacher to be armed in school?

ABNER I got this. You think that living in my own apartment doesn’t come with its benefits? Well, man, when you’ve accidentally locked yourself out as many times as I have, you either learn how to pick a lock, or you freeze your nads off.

(looks at the audience breaking the fourth wall like Jim from The Office)

(CHARLIE hands ABNER a pin from her hair, and ABNER starts to pick the lock. MRS enters)

ZEPP (eyes narrowing)

Almost… Almost… Got it!

What kind of brownies?

MRS And exactly what do you three think you are doing!

ABNER (Scoffing)

(The three students scream and jump apart. MRS grabs ABNER’s wrist in a death grip)

Chocolate chips . . . and, you know, a special ingredient. (Before ZEPPELIN can answer, the door opens and CHARLIE comes barging in.)

I will have the three of you expelled for this! Breaking into personal property, intent to steal, acting out during class and in detention! And you, Charlotte? I expected more from you! I should have known these imbeciles would corrupt you.

ZEPPELIN (stands)

(CHARLIE flushes and looks on the verge of tears.)

Did you find something to help us? So, we won’t get expelled tomorrow?

I will have you all expelled for this. First thing tomorrow, I will meet with Principal Moony.

CHARLIE Well, I didn’t find something, but I did find someone.

ABNER You can’t expel us without showing Mr. Moony what’s in your totally unsuspicious drawer.

(MAMA JOOMOMBA is pulled into the room, wearing a turban and numerous bangles. She looks like any generic fake psychic. She is carrying a very large and tacky bag.)

MRS (MRS lets go of Abner’s wrist)

MAMA (in an undistinguishable foreign accent)

Just get out of here. Most certainly your parents will receive calls from the office. If I were you, I wouldn’t even bother coming in tomorrow. Now leave. Immediately!

‘Ello, boys. (ZEPPELIN and ABNER are shocked but amused. The two women walk down center stage and stand beside ZEPPELIN on the bed. ZEPPELIN is speechless)

(ABNER, ZEPP, and CHARLIE run into the right wing, the two boys consoling CHARLIE) MRS (A single spotlight falls upon MRS. CRUSHNIK as she reaches into the desk drawer, and pulls out the gun she used to kill her husband. The spotlight then turns off, ending the scene)

ABNER (His mouth hanging open) Brownie? CHARLIE (MAMA goes and reaches for one, but CHARLIE stops her) Abner, put those away.

SCENE 3 -- RAMBLE ON INT. ABNER’S APARTMENT-- NIGHT Dimly lit with a raggedy bed covered in a thick yellow quilt. The walls are covered with band posters. Suspicious bottles are scattered around the room. ZEPPELIN is sitting on the bed. ABNER walks in from stage left holding a baking pan.

ABNER (winking to MAMA) It’s okay. There’s more in the oven. ZEPPELIN Umm… who the heck is she?

ABNER (Offering the pan to ZEPPELIN)

MAMA I, the great Mama Joomomba. Best seer this side of Jersey. I read your fortune, yes no?

Hey, man. Brownies?

CHARLIE She’s my sister’s psychic. Clarissa swears by her, says she’s really got a gift. Stopped her from marrying this dentist named Clint, although even I could have probably told her that…

ABNER Hey, Zeppa-Depp. If this doesn’t work, at least we’ll still have each other, man. It won’t be the end of the world or anything for us to transfer to another school. But if you do want to do this, I trust you. You won’t be alone out there.

ZEPPELIN Really? A psychic? How is she going to help us prove that Mrs. Crushnik is a murderer?

(To MAMA, who has begun stealing various items and placing them in her large bag.) Isn’t that right M.J.?

MAMA (holds up an oversized walkie talkie)

MAMA Yes, dis is true. Now hurry up, bingo game is at nine.

You sleep. I read mind. I talk to hippie boy through Walkie taco and he finds evidence, yes no?

ZEPPELIN (SC walks into the room wearing a Deadpool t-shirt and black tights. He is holding a ski mask in one hand while shooting finger guns with his other)

ABNER Wait, what?

Okay… okay fine... Let’s do it. CHARLIE (slowly)

(ZEPPELIN lies down on the bed, and goes under the quilt. CHARLIE & ABNER tuck him in)

The plan is that Zeppelin, you’re going to fall asleep, and Ms. Joomomba here is going to vibe with your astral projection. You are going to project into Mrs. Crushnik’s house, and Abner, you’re going to break into her house for real. Walk in, find any evidence that you can to prove Mrs. Crushnik is guilty, then walk out and call the cops.

MAMA Okay, are you ready, child? (ZEPPELIN nods shakily and closes his eyes. MAMA places her hands on his forehead Suddenly, there is a spotlight on MAMA as she turns to face the audience and SC is by her side)

ZEPPELIN Are you insane? You want to send Abner into a murderer’s house?

SC (Handing her the ski mask)

ABNER No problemo, dude and dudettes. I’ve always wanted to solve a murder mystery, man, stick it to the institution, hit Mrs. C where it hurts.

Hey, Big Mama. Here, you’re gonna need this. SCENE 4 -- COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN INT. MRS CRUSHNIK’S BEDROOM -- NIGHT Bedroom has the same set- up as in the first scene, with a double bed and drawers on either side. SUBCONSCIOUS, ABNER, and MAMA start the scene by breaking into the room. ABNER cannot see SC, since he and MAMA are the only ones actually physically there. ABNER hears SC through MAMA and her walkie talkie. ABNER is dressed in all black and wearing gloves. ABNER Wow, it literally smells like passive aggressive homework assignments. How is that possible?

ZEPPELIN You can’t seriously expect this to work? You think that she can really talk to me while I sleep?! What are the odds that I have control over anything that happens to me after I close my eyes? CHARLIE I know that you’re afraid, Z. Abner and I know how much your sleep paralysis scares you. (ZEPPELIN hangs his head)

SC & MAMA (In unison. MAMA speaking into the walkie talkie)

But this is kind of a hopeless situation. Really, we’re putting everything on the line here. If we can’t prove that Mrs. Crushnik did anything, then we’re all screwed.

Stay focused!

ABNER Yeah, all right. I just hope that I don’t lose my apartment if we get caught mid B&E.

app on his phone) I know that you killed your husband, Mrs. C! You shot him with that gun, and then hid it in your desk at school. And when you caught us sneaking around, you threatened to expel us.

(SC and MAMA begin rifling through drawers on stage left, ABNER stage right) You find anything, Zepp? SC & MAMA Nope. Nothing on this side. You?

MRS (furious)

ABNER

Y-you! You think that after everything I’m going to let one insolent orphan take me down! You think that I’m the monster here!

Zilch. (They gather in front of the bed at center stage and begin to pull off the covers)

(ABNER, MAMA, and SC all nod viciously.)

You know, I always thought that the first time I was in another woman’s bed, the situation would be a lot different from this…

You were the one who was sleeping around! You’re the one who treated me like I was insane for wanting to know everything that you were doing every hour of the day! You’re the one who called me crazy for obsessing with a pair of misbehaving students by giving them detention every day! I shot you! Why can’t you just stay dead Harold!

(SC finds a shoebox under the bed, and shows it to the audience before putting it back) SC and MAMA Here, Abby, check under the bed. There’s a shoebox.

ABNER Who the hell is Harold?

(ABNER reaches down and grabs the box) (The gun is fired and ABNER falls down. MRS escapes) ABNER Bullseye.

MAMA Oh, no, dis is not worth it. I have bingo now, no time to deal with dying hippie boys getting shot. You have handle on situation, yes no?

(opens the box and pulls out the gun in his gloved hand) Well, this is a lot different from the box under my bed. Zepp, what do I do now?

(MAMA rips off her ski mask and runs off )

SC & MAMA

SC (crying, kneels over ABNER)

Call the cops, idiot. (ABNER puts the gun down on the bed and pulls out his phone to call the police. Suddenly, the bedroom door opens and reveals MRS. CRUSHNIK in a bathrobe and once again, hot pink hair rollers. ABNER does not realize she has entered)

Oh, God, Abner, no. (ABNER can’t hear SC as MAMA is no longer translating over the walkie talkie) C’mon, Quill. You can’t do this to me. We were so close; you-- you can’t die. Mama Joomomba’s left… there’s no one to tell Charlie you got shot. How do I save you? You trusted me….

SC and MAMA Mother of pearl, Abner turn the hell around! MRS (grabs the gun)

(Stands up pulling at his hair, to himself)

Abner Quill?! What the hell are you doing in here!

Wake up, Zeppelin! Wake up, damnit. This can’t be like the other times. You have to wake up.

ABNER (Surprised, but brave. Quickly opens the voice memos

(SC closes his eyes and tries to force himself awake, to

no avail. Hopeless, SC sits down next to ABNER and holds him as he bleeds out.)

CHARLIE Abner, you’re awake!

I’m sorry, Abby. I’ve never been able to make myself wake up. I killed you. This is all my fault. I loved you, man. I can’t face Charlie after this. She’ll hate me. This was all so stupid.

ABNER (sitting up, groaning) That, it appears I am.

ABNER (Seeing SC for the first time, reaching out to him)

ZEPPELIN We were so worried about you.

Zeppy? Geez, either those brownies were really strong, or I’m about to die.

CHARLIE The doctors say that if we had called the police any later, that you might not have made it.

SC (surprised, sniffling) Abner? Oh, gosh, can you see me? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

ABNER Wow. That’s deep, man. Like my gunshot wound. Wait… so what exactly happened after I got shot?

ABNER It’s okay, Zeppelin. This is Mrs. Crushnik’s fault. Not yours. I don’t blame you.

ZEPPELIN (Once again, the blue spotlight settles over them to indicate a flashback. ZEPPELIN takes Abner’s place in the hospital bed, and Abner sprawls dramatically on the floor towards stage left. ZEPPELIN wakes up screaming)

(sad pause) I loved you too. I love both you and Charlie. You’re the only family that I ever got. And if I had to do things all over again, man… I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.

Agh! Charlie, oh, gosh, Foreman, Abner got shot! Mrs. Crushnik shot him!

SC (Angrily)

CHARLIE W-What are you talking about? Mama Joomomba just hightailed it out of here like two minutes ago, and she said everything was all right.

No, I’m not going to let you die like this. I’m going to wake up, I’m gonna save you, Abner, and none of us are going to get expelled, and we’ll never have to deal with Mrs. Crushnik’s Sig Figs ever again, man.

ZEPPELIN No, Charlie! Call the police. Hurry.

(SC takes a deep breath) (ZEPPELIN runs over to ABNER’s body) It’s okay, Abner. I’m here now. Everything is going to be okay.

Okay, here we go. Three… Two… one. (Spotlights cut out, ending the scene)

ABNER (weakly)

SCENE 5 -- BABE I’M GONNA LEAVE YOU INT. HOSPITAL ROOM A hospital bed with monitors, on it sleeps ABNER, and on either side of him are ZEPPELIN and CHARLIE.

Phone. My phone. (ZEPPELIN takes the phone out of ABNER’s hand.)

ABNER (waking up, weakly)

ZEPPELIN (clicks stop on the recording and listens to it back. A pre- recorded version of MRS lines from the last scene plays for the audience to hear.)

Sup, dude. Dudette. (CHARLIE and ZEPPELIN jump up and hug ABNER)

MRS “I shot you! Why can’t you just stay dead, Harold?”

ZEPPELIN (smiling)

ZEPPELIN W--what are you talking about? Of course, I need you. You got me through… hours of being alone, just stuck. Unable to wake up.

Abner, you nifty bastard. (Blue spotlight fades, and the friends return to their original spots)

SC You woke up when Abner got shot.

CHARLIE After that the police came and we showed them the recording of Mrs. Crushnik’s confession. They found her hiding out at the high school after following the trail of hair rollers she left behind. Principal Moony says that they probably won’t find a replacement for her until at least the end of the trimester, either.

ZEPPELIN That was a fluke. I had to wake up; he was dying. I don’t think I could ever do that again. SC Still. You have Quill and Foreman. You don’t need me to hold your hand and get us into more trouble than we’re worth. I came to you because when you were younger, you needed an escape. You needed to be able to see the world around you. But I helped you solve a friggin murder investigation, man. I think it’s safe to say that my job here is done. We had a good run, Z. Take care of Charlie and Abner for me, all right. You’ve got them now.

ZEPPELIN There’s going to be this whole award ceremony with the mayor. They’re gonna award us medals for our “heroic actions.”

ABNER (laughing)

ZEPPELIN (sad about SC, but happy about ABNER and CHARLIE being his friends. softly)

I’m assuming you left out the parts about picking locks and smoking po-- I mean… eating brownies.

...See you later, alligator. (The three friends burst into laughter. CHARLIE and ABNER continue to mime a conversation, as SC walks onto center stage. CHARLIE and ABNER freeze.)

SC (laughing)

SC (bittersweetly)

In a while, crocodile. (SC produces a penny board from underneath the hospital bed, and skates offstage in one final wacky hurrah. ZEPPELIN rejoins his friends and they share a chorus of laughter, before the spotlights finally fades and the final scene ends.)

Hey, Z-Dog. ZEPPELIN (pause, frowning) You’re leaving… aren’t you. SC You did good work, kiddo

ZEPPELIN (Pointing between himself and SC) No. We did good! SC There isn’t a ‘we’ anymore. You don’t need me here.

HERO-MAN Jacob Makofske

Northern Highlands Regional High School

INT. LEWIS COLLINS’s new house, SL. Boxes are stacked all over LEWIS’s Room. He uses stacks of boxes as a makeshift chair and desk. He writes in a blue book the size of a dictionary. All of the pages, but one, are flipped to one side. LEWIS finishes, satisfied, and slams the book shut.

DRAMA

holds. He places it on top. His mother enters from upstage. MS. COLLINS Hey, sweetie. I just wanted to remind you that we should probably leave in about forty minutes to drop your book-oh no.

LEWIS I’m finally done! Its 9,609,000 characters, 1,921,800 words, 192,180 sentences, 960.9 pages, 38.436 chapters, seven years of planning, eight months of writing this rewrite, of which there are eleven, of course, blood, sweat, and tears.

LEWIS Doesn’t anyone ever knock? Just leave me alone! I’m trying to brood. Turn the lights out when you leave me to die. LEWIS slumps onto a small couch which doubles as a makeshift bed.

JOSHUA, LEWIS’s older brother, barges in suddenly from a door upstage. LEWIS looks mortified as JOSHUA snatches the book from LEWIS’s grasp. JOSHUA (Attempting to sound out the words) Hey, LEWIS, what are you writing? Some nerd thing?

MS. COLLINS Honey, this is the last Young Writers Association Competition you’re eligible for. Are you sure you’re going to attempt this again?

H-HERO...M-MA-AN? That’s kind of a dumb name. Why is he called HERO-MAN?

LEWIS Yes.

LEWIS turns to the audience.

MS. COLLINS I was hoping that, once you submitted your book, you would spend more time outside. Talk to people.

LEWIS It’s terrible.

LEWIS I’m here for only half a year, what's the point?

JOSHUA But anyway, I gotta go, bro. Catch ya on the flip side.

MS. COLLINS Well, what about your friends from last year? What happened to MORGAN? Can you give MORGAN a call?

JOSHUA exits, upstage. LEWIS This book is an embarrassment. It's disgusting. It’s the worst thing the world has or ever will have experienced. This is it. I can’t submit this. I need to re-write it. I’m no writer. I’m a joke, and I’ll never be worth anything. The book must be destroyed.

LEWIS His name is MILTON and he hates me now, so it doesn’t matter. People just don’t like me very much. MS. COLLINS Why is that?

LEWIS stands up and begins to walk to the corner of his room. A red spotlight appears on a trash can. The trash can is overflowing with books identical to the one he

LEWIS raises his fist.

LEWIS It would appear that society has dealt me a bad hand.

They look stereotypically rich. They bicker among themselves like children as they enter. A masked man comes in wearing a trench coat from one of the paintings. He holds a gun in one hand and a dagger in the other.

MS. COLLINS Well, I think you’re pretty cool. She punches his arm lightly. This doesn’t make him feel better.

HENRY MONEYBAGS Greetings, MR. DIAMONDWORTH.

MS. COLLINS I’ll be back in 45 minutes to take you to drop off your book. Finish up any last-minute details before I get back.

Suddenly, a scream is heard and the lights flicker. A flash of lighting and a clap of thunder occur. The lights come back on and a skeleton takes the place of FRANKLIN, who had been standing with the crowd. People scream and back away from the skeleton.

LEWIS jumps up off the couch. MILTON J.J. DIAMONDWORTH My goodness gracious! What chicanery is this?

LEWIS But Mom! It’s terrible!

EDNA GERTRUDE DIAMONDWORTH Oh, my stars! If only there were some sort of… Hero-MAN who could save us!

MS. COLLINS turns to leave. MS. COLLINS Door open or-

A man walks into the center of the stage, dressed like a cross between a detective and a superhero. He steps forward, boldly.

LEWIS Closed. The door closes.

HERO-MAN This is stupid. I’m not doing it.

LEWIS My mother could never understand. No one understands.

LEWIS jumps up. LEWIS What? You can’t do that!

LEWIS retrieves the book from the trash can and sits down at his desk, in a panic, taking a comically large red pen from one of the boxes.

LEWIS speaks what he writes.

LEWIS (COUNT’D) “Once upon a time...” Stupid. LEWIS colors in the page red.

LEWIS (COUNT’D) Suddenly LEWIS is there, as in the story. LEWIS walks from his bedroom to the other side of the stage and into the mansion. He puts the book down on a table against the wall.

LEWIS (COUNT’D) “Milton J.J. Diamondworth, Senior, died and Milton J.J. Diamondworth, Jr., wanted all of the inheritance money, which doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s the killer…” Obvious. Beat. God, this awful.

LEWIS (COUNT’D) You can’t leave! I need you! HERO-MAN drapes his cape over LEWIS.

The lights come up on SR, revealing the set of a murder mystery. There's a stuffed moose head above the fireplace, pictures of ancient ancestors on all the walls, and a red carpet on the floor. Suddenly, several characters walk in to the scene, such as EDNA GERTRUDE DIAMONDWORTH, BEATRICE LOVEHANDLES, FRANKLIN ERNES COLLINWALER, and HENRY MONEYBAGS.

HERO-MAN Kid, do you think you can accept the honor of helping me solve this mystery? LEWIS Uhhh-

HERO-MAN Good. Thanks, kid.

LEWIS Okay. Who's the wise guy? I’m looking at you MILTON.

LEWIS Wait! I need you! They all need you!

MILTON J.J. DIAMONDWORTH Well, I personally think it’s a tad strange that MS. LOVEHANDLES was never around during the time of the attacks.

HERO-MAN It’ll be okay. Just do it without me this time. Solving mysteries is great for your college resume. Want me to write you a recommendation or something?

LEWIS Everyone, out!

HENRY MONEYBAGS approaches the HEROMAN and LEWIS.

He puts his arm out, stopping MILTON.

HENRY MONEYBAGS Ah, so you are the “Hero” Man, I presume. I’ve heard great things about you.

LEWIS Not you.

LEWIS Shut up for a sec, HENRY MONEYBAGS.

The other characters exit. LEWIS looks at MILTON. MILTON slowly turns to look at him. They stare at each other.

HENRY MONEYBAGS Well, I never!

MILTON What?

LEWIS Please, HERO-MAN. What am I supposed to do without a hero for my story?

LEWIS Um. So, MILTON. Have you seen a book by any chance? Just lying around. Could possibly directly affect space and time as you know it.

HERO-MAN Just do a book without a hero this time around, kid.

MILTON You mean the will?

HENRY MONEYBAGS Gentlemen, if you don’t mind my asking-

LEWIS What? No. A book.

LEWIS No! I can’t! Please!

MILTON You’re after the family fortune!

HERO-MAN No. Stupid book. Stupid story. Stupid characters. I’m even stupid! I’m not going to play along anymore!

MILTON runs at LEWIS. LEWIS screams as MILTON chases him around the coffee table. HERO-MAN walks back in with a plate of cookies he’s eating. He watches them running in circles for a moment, before walking up and stepping in front of MILTON. MILTON bumps into HERO-MAN. HERO-MAN doesn’t move and just stands there, towering over MILTON.

Throughout this exchange, HENRY MONEYBAGS has become more and more concerned that he is facing an existential crisis, realizing he's in a book. He eventually plugs his ears and exits. HERO-MAN storms off. LEWIS sighs. He goes back for the book, but it isn’t there. He looks at the characters, who are all huddled around, bickering among themselves, except for MILTON J.J. DIAMONDWORTH, who stands in the corner, personifying evil. EDNA gets a broom and sweeps the skeletal remains into the fireplace, crying.

MILTON Arrest this man! He’s after the family fortune! He tried to kill me! He looks back up at HERO-MAN’s reaction. HEROMAN just stares at him, annoyed. MILTON runs off.

MILTON Someone, help! They’re after the family fortune!

LEWIS What? You aren’t going to try to save them? You can’t just go off and sulk by yourself! You’re supposed to be the Hero!

LEWIS Oh, man. You should probably go stop him before he turns everyone against you in the second act.

HERO-MAN Save them? Why does it matter if I save them? They're poorly written characters. Maybe we’ll get some interesting ones when these jerks are all used up.

HERO-MAN I’m not here to continue the story, kid. I just couldn’t stand your screaming. I was trying to savor a moment alone in The Chamber of Think, when I heard you screaming your head off.

LEWIS is very clearly hurt by this. He tries to think of something to throw back at him.

LEWIS You have a Think Chamber too?

LEWIS You used to be cool. Back when you were a real hero. Y’know?

HERO-MAN It's called The Chamber of Think. It’s sort of like a secret hideout, only way more awesome… and handsome.

Everyone liked you and you were nice, and-and now you’re just a jerk!

HERO-MAN runs his fingers through his hair.

Silence.

LEWIS What do you even do in there?

LEWIS (COUNT’D) Whatever. You’re probably right. This is stupid. MILTON is the killer. Let's go get him.

HERO-MAN I reminisce. Beat. In any case, it's time for you to go home, kid.

HERO-MAN I know. Look, kid, I’m sorry I upset you. We can go get him if you really want. I just-I don’t know.

LEWIS Can’t. I lost the book. I think someone stole it.

LEWIS LEWIS.

HERO-MAN You’ve gotta be kidding me. Fine. I’ll help you find your dumb book, if it means that you finally leave me alone so I can enjoy my early retirement. Deal?

HERO-MAN Yeah, I know. Sorry… LEWIS… Okay. HERO-MAN stands.

The lights flicker; thunder and lightning in the distance. A scream is heard from offstage.

HERO-MAN Everyone who is left, get in here!

BEATRICE LOVEHANDLES (Screaming) How did her guts get all over the ceiling?

BEATRICE and MILTON walk in. HERO-MAN That's it? Yeesh.

LEWIS Sure, I guess.

Another flash of lightning. There's screaming from both BEATRICE and MILTON. The lights come back on. They’re both skeletons.

HERO-MAN Okay. We’re going to wait it out. Someone dies once every five minutes, so once everyone is dead, we’re left with the killer and the person who took your dumb book.

LEWIS What? That's impossible!

HERO-MAN sits on the couch, kicking his feet up.

HERO-MAN But if they aren’t the-

LEWIS’s door swings open. His mother appears. She walks to the other side of the stage into the story, but does not acknowledge the mansion or HERO-MAN.

HERO-MAN Why do you keep writing me? LEWIS What?

MS. COLLINS Hey, sweetie. I bought you some rice cubes and orange slices. You didn’t eat lunch, so I figured you could use a little snack-

HERO-MAN Why do you keep rewriting me? Did I do something wrong? Was I not good enough?

LEWIS Mom! I told you to knock! I’m having a brainstorming session!

LEWIS What? No! It’s not like that.

Get outttttttt!

HERO-MAN But it is. I know it is. It’s my fault. I wasn’t good enough and my wife got written out, followed by pretty much everyone else I cared about as you kept reinventing me. All of my friends left or turned against me. Hell, I remember when MILTON used to be my sidekick! My friend! Then, at one point, I was Goth for a while until I got really chubby and depressed. I wish I could go back to my old life when everyone loved me and I was funny, and nice, and cool. I just want to be… good… again, but I don’t know how to. To be frank, I don’t even know why I’m here anymore. I just know that you’re right. I’m kind of a jerk, and I’m sorry.

MS. COLLINS Have fun with your session, dear. She leaves the plate of food on a box. MS. COLLINS (COUNT’D) Door open orLEWIS and HERO-MAN Closed. Lights off. And it's called the Think Chamber! LEWIS and HERO-MAN look at each other.

LEWIS No, no, no! I didn’t mean that. I just was saying that… I don’t know. Look, I know how you feel, but I mean you’ve gotta keep going, or something, right?

LEWIS This is kind of embarrassing. HERO-MAN No worries. Beat. Are you going to ea-

HERO-MAN How?

LEWIS No.

They sit in silence for a while.

HERO-MAN brings the plate over and starts eating.

LEWIS I haven’t really thought about it like that, and I’m sorry, but you are important. You’re important to all of these people:

HERO-MAN Families can be tough. LEWIS and HERO-MAN sit on the couch together.

He gestures towards the skeletons.

LEWIS And friends. Just people who aren’t me, I guess.

LEWIS (COUNT’D) You’re important to me.

HERO-MAN It's fine. They’re all terrible.

HERO-MAN I let them die so I could wallow in self- pity.

LEWIS Yeah. Beat.

LEWIS Look-

HERO-MAN begins to choke. He grabs at his throat. HENRY MONEYBAGS enters, writing in the book.

The dead characters walk in, puppeteering their skeletons and making spooky ghost noises. They slowly approach HENRY MONEYBAGS.

HENRY MONEYBAGS Don’t bother trying to get up “HERO”-MAN. The closer you get to me, the more you drown in your own incompetence!

HENRY MONEYBAGS No! Please! We can talk this out!

LEWIS Woah. Are you okay? H-HENRY MONEYBAGS? You stole the book? But why?

LOSER-MAN gets up off the couch, causing him clear distress. He dodges a skeleton and marches forward taking big steps as if the floor is sticky and it's hard to lift his legs. He starts to choke more.

HENRY MONEYBAGS Because my whole existence has been as a character in a stupid twelve-year-old fan fiction! Well, the tables are turned! Now I get to be LOUIE!

LEWIS No! Stop. Hey. Hey. Stop. No. Don’t. Don’t. If you do this, you’re going to die, y’know! Are you really going to sacrifice yourself for HENRY MONEYBAGS?

LEWIS LEWIS. HENRY MONEYBAGS Yes! Very good, LEWIS, or should I say-

LOSER-MAN grabs the book out of his hands as the skeletons reach HENRY. There's a flash of lightning. The lights go out. It's silent. When the lights come back on, HERO-MAN and LEWIS are alone in the room. They have returned to normal. HERO-MAN lies crumpled on the floor.

He writes something in the book. There's a flash of lightning. LEWIS screams. When the lights come on, they’ve changed clothing. LEWIS HENRY MONEYBAGS!

LEWIS HERO-MAN! Are you okay?

HENRY MONEYBAGS What? You… Look, man-

HERO-MAN Actually, I’m super not okay.

LEWIS And also, now HERO-MAN is lOSER-MAN!

LEWIS Don’t worry, I’ll fix this! Where’s the book?

There's another flash of lightning. The H on HEROMAN’s chest becomes an L.

HERO-MAN You left it in the trash can.

LOSER-MAN (choking) Nooooooo! LEWIS But-

HENRY MONEYBAGS Change LOSER-MAN back, LEWIS! This needs to stop!

HERO-MAN We both know you’ve been running around your room doing the voices for forty-five minutes.

LEWIS writes something in his book. As HENRY MONEYBAGS gets up to attack him, he slows down.

LEWIS We do.

LEWIS Now you’re really slow! And also, the floor is really hot! It hurts your bones!

HERO-MAN Go submit your book. It’s good.

HENRY MONEYBAGS Oof, ouch, my bones!

LEWIS But-

LEWIS Get him, boys!

HERO-MAN

MS. COLLINS Time to go.

No buts. It is good. You’re good. You’re a smart kid, LEWIS, and I believe in you enough for the both of us.

LEWIS is silent for a moment.

LEWIS (Voice trembling) But what am I going to do without you?

LEWIS But what happens if I don’t win?

HERO-MAN Submit your book, go back to school, and, for God’s sake, leave your own head every now and then.

MS. COLLINS Well, I’ll be proud of you no matter what, sweetheart.

LEWIS (Now crying) I know I have to, but I’m scared.

She exits. LEWIS stands up. A spotlight appears on the trash can. He walks over to it and picks up the book on top.

HERO-MAN I know, kid. HERO-MAN goes limp, dead. LEWIS closes HEROMAN’s eyes. The light on SR fades out. LEWIS walks back to his room and slumps down on the couch, deep in thought. MS. COLLINS knocks on the door.

LEWIS 9,609,000 characters, 1,921,800 words, 192,180 sentences, 960.9 pages, 38.436 chapters, seven years of planning, eight months of writing this rewrite, of which there are eleven, of course, blood, sweat… and tears.

LEWIS Come in.

LEWIS holds the book to his chest. He walks out, closing the door behind him. The lights fade.

MS. COLLINS walks in.

DAVID BERGENSTEIN’S BIG DAY Lindsey Polevoy

Bergen County Academies

CHARACTERS DAVID, 13-year-old Jewish boy. Nerdy and extremely anxious, wears big glasses. REBECCA BERGENSTEIN, David’s perfectionist mother. AUNT ESTHER, David’s aunt. Previous family screwup and party girl. RABBI ABRAMOWITZ, Jewish Rabbi. Owns a dummy named Mordechai. GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN, David’s Grandfather. Recognizes no boundaries, loud voice. GREAT- AUNT CATHY, David’s older distant relative. Has a Bronx accent, and very large breast implants. AARON, David’s best friend. JUDY, David’s friend. GABE, Young Rabbinical Intern. Cool older brother type.

DRAMA

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ (confused) Gabriel, who are you talking to? GABE Oh, no one, Rabbi. I was just preparing for the service. RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Good… good. Well, run along then. The Bar Mitzvah will be starting soon. (GABE winks at the audience, and the two men exit. DAVID, the famous Bar-Mitzvah boy, hurries on stage, changing his mind about his intended destination countless times, before finally settling on a chair next to the bema podium. He sits for almost a full second before hopping up and beginning to run off stage. REBECCA enters and stops him before he gets very far)

TIME Present, mid- morning.

REBECCA (spits on fingers and aggressively wipes DAVD’s face)

PLACE Synagogue, complete with a bema (religious altar) and coat room. Likely in the suburbs of New York City. The coat room has a coat rack, power cord, and table with Manischewitz wine, candlesticks, and challah bread.

You have schmutz on your chin. Don’t you wash yourself? All this time spent getting you dressed for today, and that clearly didn’t help! I work day and night for you, David, and this is how you thank me? And what are you doing, pacing everywhere. For God’s sake, the last time these people were all together was to see a knife put to your dinker! Go greet them!

SCENE I (At curtain, the set is dimly lit by a small lamp. There are echoes of Hebrew prayer in the background. There is something tangibly holy about this moment. A man in white rabbinical robes, GABE, walks onstage slowly, adding to the intrigue. Then, he turns on the lights)

(DAVID keeps looking around, past his mother) REBECCA (cont.) David! Do you even listen to me?

GABE (acknowledging the audience)

DAVID Mom, have you seen Judy and Aaron? They were supposed to be here by now!

Oh, hello! I didn’t see you there! Are you all here for the Bergenstein family Bar Mitzvah? (pause) That’s wonderful! Jew, gentile, whatever, feel free to participate. We love to share our traditions with new people. Remember, we’re here to celebrate our Bar Mitzvah on his journey to manhood, so sing along, dance a little, even come up on the bema if you want.

REBECCA I have not. Did you tell them the Bar Mitzvah’s today? Honey, did you forget to tell them the Bar Mitzvah’s today because—

(RABBI ABRAMOWITZ enters)

DAVID

I told them!

traumatic.

(DAVID begins breathing heavily)

REBECCA David, come say hello to Aunt Cathy!

REBECCA All you do is kvetch and kvetch and kvetch. The least you could do is go say hello to your poor old Grandfather!

(AUNT CATHY turns around and waves eagerly) GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN Oy, that’s your Great Aunt isn’t it? Why, David, you shouldn’t say distasteful things like that about your family, this isn’t Gamer Thrones.

DAVID But ma! Everyone’s here and, well, Grandpa… he… what if people see? REBECCA (warningly)

(He exits and DAVID walks over to REBECCA and AUNT CATHY. AUNT CATHY grabs DAVID and hugs him suffocatingly, his face at the unfortunate height of her breasts)

David… (GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN enters)

AUNT CATHY (still holding David) So, I thought it was time we mention the elephant in the room.

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN David, did you think you could get away from me? Come here and say hello to your Grandfather. There we go…

REBECCA The… uh (glances down) elephant?

(DAVID winces and turns his cheek as GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN grabs his face and plants a kiss smack on DAVID’s lips) GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN (cont.) Any nice Jewish girls coming today?

AUNT CATHY Yes, yes, I know. I don’t think anyone noticed, but I did go a little lighter on my hair. Honestly Rebecca, I suggest you do the same; you’re getting a little gray too.

(DAVID winces once again)

(REBECCA opens her mouth, but thinks better of it.)

Ah. Nice Jewish boys?

REBECCA Why don’t I take your coat?

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN (cont.) (nods knowingly)

AUNT CATHY Oh, that’s all right, honey. David can do it. That’s what the children are for anyways.

DAVID Grandpa! No!

REBECCA (winks) Takes one to know one.

Sure… AUNT CATHY You know, you’re lucky David turned out so good. My Harry never gave me any good children, each and every one of them, a disappointment. We always thought that maybe the next one would come out just a little better, just a little. No.

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN DAVID I’m pretty sure that’s not what that means— (GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN points at a girl/woman, who is talking to REBECCA)

REBECCA I’m happy that David and I have each other. We make a good pair, the two of us. Ever since his father left

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN What about her? A potential wife, eh? Her oytzers are plenty large, Jewish babies are like vultures. Your mother completely ruined your Grandmother’s, it was pretty

AUNT CATHY (interrupting)

Rebecca, where is your sister? I haven’t had the chance to see her yet.

Probably. JUDY We were supposed to meet David before it started to give him his socks!

REBECCA You know how Essie is… AUNT CATHY That girl was never organized. She probably forgot the Bar Mitzvah was today. You were always the good one.

AARON He’ll survive without socks.

(REBECCA smiles with pride)

JUDY They’re his LUCKY socks. David wanted them! Remember David? Our friend.

AUNT CATHY (cont.) (checks her watch) Oh, look at the time. If I don’t take my seat, your father will ambush me with one of his famous Bergenstein lip kisses.

AARON Don’t start lecturing me about friendship. JUDY I really don’t want to argue about this now, Aaron! Can we just go?

REBECCA Yeah, that’s definitely in your best interest. (DAVID enters, looking clearly sweatier than before)

AARON (sarcastically) Oh, how dare I get mad at the Judy Schwartz!

AUNT CATHY (cont.) (pinching DAVID’s cheeks)

JUDY I’m gonna leave you here, if you don’t stop whining.

Oh, you’re so cute. Listen to me, David, don’t embarrass your mother today. This is just as much her big day as yours. Despite what they might tell you, we will all know if you mess up the Torah portion. Do you hear me? Good.

AARON Oh, look! I’m Judy! I’m popular! Every boy loves me because I’m not an ugly nerd anymore!

(DAVID’s eyes widen with fear and AUNT CATHY exits, pulling REBECCA with her. Suddenly, there is a large clattering noise. Lights down)

(JUDY elbows AARON in the crotch, and tries to open the door. It is locked)

SCENE II (Lights up on the coat room. Aaron stands in the middle of the fallen coats and coat rack. JUDY slams the door as she storms in.)

Ow!

JUDY Aaron, you gotta be kidding me! We’re already late! How does it even take someone two hours to get ready?

(Lights down in the coat closet)

AARON

JUDY For God’s sake! Why is the world against me today!

SCENE III (Lights up. The service is underway. GABE, the Rabbinical Intern, is playing the guitar and singing a prayer. RABBI ABRAMOWITZ and DAVID are standing at the podium. We zero in on their conversation)

AARON (bitterly) Not everyone stumbles out of bed looking perfect.

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ (whispering to DAVID) How exciting! In just a few minutes, you will be reciting Hebrew Prayer! Are you ready?

(Musical Prayer can be heard faintly in the background.) JUDY Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no. Did the service just start?

(DAVID forces out a sound of an acknowledgement) AARON

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ (cont.) Lovely! Would you like to do some vocal exercises to prepare? DAVID N-no thank you, Rabbi. RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Here, I think you could use some advice from my friend Mordechai. DAVID Oh. Who’s Morde— (RABBI ABRAMOWITZ pulls out a Dummy which is dressed exactly like him.) RABBI ABRAMOWITZ (as the dummy) Hi, Dah-vid! I’m Mordechai! Adonai wishes you good luck on your Bar Mitzvah!

(singing a high prayer, when his voice cracks) Shochen Ad— AUNT CATHY (to Grandpa Bergenstein) Give me the money back, Joseph! I told you, the boy would hit puberty. DAVID Marom v’kadosh sh’mo. (From offstage, AUNT ESTHER can be heard talking loudly on the phone. She walks in and takes her seat next to REBECCA, wearing fancy business clothes) AUNT ESTHER And if you order the mega-package, you’ll get elite status! You can just use my code: Esther— (sees REBECCA) Oh… um, sorry... Neil, I have to go. (DAVID’s voice is heard quietly in the background as Rebecca and Esther’s conversion becomes the main focus)

DAVID Adonai?

REBECCA Where have you been? You can’t keep being late to things like this. I’ve been telling you this for a long time now: maybe It’s time you settle down, get a good job, you know… get your shit together.

Yes. Do you know him? (long pause) DAVID Rabbi? RABBI ABRAMOWITZ It’s Mordechai, Dah-vid. I don’t know of this Rabbi you speak of. DAVID Sorry, Mordechai… Does everyone who gets Bar Mitzvahed believe in God? (beat) I mean not that I don’t believe in God, Rabbi, because I definitely do. If anyone believes in God, it’s me— RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Whatever you are going on about David, I’m sure it’s just nerves! Look, it is time for you first prayer!

AUNT ESTHER (ignoring REBECCA) Sorry, I just had to deal with something. REBECCA I can see. Who’s Neil? No one has called you Esther since you were born. AUNT ESTHER I go by Esther now. REBECCA Really? But you’ve always been Essie. AUNT ESTHER It's better for business. No one can take the name Essie seriously anymore.

(Lights down) SCENE IV (Lights up on the bema. DAVID is standing on the podium, singing a prayer. RABBI ABRAMOWITZ stands to the side of the podium, humming along. REBECCA, AUNT CATHY, and GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN watch from the chairs.)

REBECCA Better for business? Did you get fired from Hooters? Essie, if you need a job I can— AUNT ESTHER I’m doing pretty fine for myself. I’ve been working for this little startup; you probably wouldn’t have heard of it. It’s a high fashion company.

DAVID

AUNT CATHY (from the back)

I thought it was only me, with the anal sweat and all. Because, it is very chilly in here. You know, it could be that I was taken off my bladder control medication lately and I just—

High fashion! AUNT ESTHER I’m very important. I’m always on call. Neil’s my subordinate, so he doesn’t know not to bother me during family events.

DAVID Baruch Atah Adonai— GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN Just the problems of getting older. You understand, right Rebecca?

REBECCA Really…I’m surprised I haven’t heard about this before—

AUNT CATHY How dare you say that to her Joseph. I mean, it is obvious with those wrinkles, but I have the perfect cream for that. Age is nothing you can’t fix. And honestly, Rebecca—

(REBECCA is interrupted by AUNT ESTHER’s cell phone ringing.) AUNT ESTHER I better take this. It’s the CEO.

REBECCA (stands abruptly)

REBECCA But—

Please!

(AUNT ESTHER does not hear and exits. REBECCA’s face scrunches up in anger)

(DAVID jumps and drops his prayer book. RABBI ABRAMOWITZ, still holding Mordechai, dives to catch it in slow motion)

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Fantastic prayer, Dah-vid! Might I suggest the temple choir? Your mother must be so proud.

No!

(RABBI ABRAMOWITZ motions to REBECCA. AUNT CATHY leans over to REBECCA)

(RABBI ABRAMOWITZ catches the prayer book. There is a loud crunch as he hits the ground)

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ

AUNT CATHY Well, Esther just looks fabulous, doesn’t she? I overheard her talking. God help me, I am Jewish, and, Rebecca, when was the last time you’ve had that good a job?

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ (cont.) Mordechai! (DAVID bends down to see what happened as RABBI ABRAMOWITZ thrusts the prayer book in the air. It hits DAVID in the face and he falls over backwards. RABBI ABRAMOWITZ continues to sob. Lights down)

(REBECCA stands angrily. CATHY does not notice and takes out a little mirror to look at herself and push up her breasts)

SCENE V (Lights up on coat closet. JUDY is pushing on the closet door trying to open it, while AARON anxiously paces)

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN Oy, Rebecca, you are getting butt sweat too? (REBECCA sits down quickly)

AARON (coldly) Have you tried pulling instead of pushing?

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ So, Dah-vid, let us begin the next prayer. Can everyone look to where it says ‘Adonai, our God’.

JUDY Talking to me now, are you?

DAVID Oh… him again?

AARON Just saying…

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN (leaning over to REBECCA)

JUDY

Can you just forget your ego for one minute and help me?

always going to be like it was when we were seven. AARON

AARON

And why not?

Fine. I guess. JUDY Well, for one, have you ever even realized that I’m a girl?

(AARON and JUDY try to push with all their might, but the door does not budge. JUDY sinks down against the door. AARON frowns)

I have.

AARON (cont.) Don’t worry. When the service is over, people will have to come get their coats anyway, right?

AARON (turns red) JUDY Well, up until this year, you were probably the only one who did, then.

JUDY I know. I just feel bad missing this. AARON

AARON It’s not a bad thing that you never acted like Emma and all those other girls. They’re so annoying.

Me too. (beat)

JUDY But I am a girl. People should know that I’m a girl.

JUDY Aaron, you know I’m not going to abandon you and David… I would never — I mean we’re, we’re always gonna be friends…

AARON Who cares if you’re a girl? You have David and me. Besides, you heard what all Emma’s friends were saying about you on Friday. Apparently, you’re now the new hottest girl in school.

AARON Yeah. JUDY

The new hottest girl in school?

But… JUDY (a little happily)

But what? AARON (angrily)

AARON Don’t get too excited about it.

JUDY We’re getting older and everything and…

JUDY What?

AARON

AARON Well, first you’re called hot. Then, you drop out of school to run away with your boyfriend. Next thing we’ll know, you’ll be on the pole, working day and night at some run-down strip club just to earn enough money to support the baby you had at 17.

And? JUDY Well, I don’t know. I can’t exactly talk to you about things that I talk to other girls about. AARON So, you’d rather hang out with Emma and her gang of bra-stuffers? Why don’t you just admit that we’re not cool enough for you.

JUDY For God’s sake, Aaron. We’re only in 8th grade! You’re different now, Judy.

JUDY Aaron, I can’t help it, but things are different. It’s not

AARON (shrugging)

REBECCA turns to RABBI ABRAMOWITZ questioningly about GABE. RABBI ABRAMOWITZ holds up a broken Mordechai)

JUDY Are you blaming me for puberty? AARON No… I just… I just miss before.

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ He was so young. Did you know that? Mordy, I called him Mordy. He just had his fourth birthday. I still remember that polished wood scent when I brought him home. Pine. (cries) Pine.

JUDY Ugh! (JUDY turns her back to AARON. Lights off the coat room.)

GABE Why don’t you take a seat, Rabbi? (whispers) He’s a little fragile right now, but he’ll be okay.

SCENE VI (Lights up on the bema. DAVID is lying on the floor, but our view of him is obstructed by RABBI ABRAMOWITZ, who is crying. REBECCA is pacing as AUNT CATHY stands, looking down at DAVID. GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN has fallen asleep in his seat)

(reaching out his hand) Gabe Ornstein-Drucker, the new Rabbinical intern, as of a few days ago. (REBECCA reaches to shake hands with GABE, but AUNT CATHY grabs his hand first)

AUNT CATHY He is out cold. Are you sure he doesn’t have epilepsy? I mean, for all we know, he’s this close to having a seizure.

AUNT CATHY Hi. I’m Cathy. How old are you? I’m 35.

REBECCA David only got hit on the head, Cathy. He did not faint.

No, you are not—

REBECCA

(AUNT CATHY elbows REBECCA in the gut. After clearing her throat, REBECCA continues talking)

AUNT CATHY Really, Rebecca. How did you let this happen? You should take one out of your sister’s book and be more responsible.

REBECCA (cont.) I’m Rebecca, David’s mother.

REBECCA Take one out of my sister’s book? Esther… Essie is the most irresponsible person I know. Even she jokes about that.

GABE Oh, yes, nice to finally meet you. I believe I saw your sister outside?

AUNT CATHY Don’t be jealous, Rebecca. It does not look very good on you.

Essie?

REBECCA

GABE Yes. She was angry because the cell reception stopped working. Whatever call she was on, it seemed pretty important.

REBECCA Oh, I’m not jealous… It’s just… This new job… Are you sure she isn’t hiding something?

(GABE turns to RABBI ABRAMOWITZ, who is silently sobbing in his chair)

AUNT CATHY Don’t be ridiculous.

GABE (cont.) I promise, he’ll be okay, Rabbi. Nothing a good coat of wood polish and glue can’t fix.

(GABE enters and walks over to RABBI ABRAMOWITZ) GABE Here, I have a water bottle and ice pack.

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Glue?

(AUNT CATHY giggles loudly and twirls her hair. GABE does not notice and crouches in front of DAVID.

Nice meeting you, Rebecca.

(GABE exits)

REBECCA (cont.) Wait a minute, is this a Melanie Kate phone case? Is this the company you’ve been working for?

GABE (shakes his head)

AUNT ESTHER AUNT CATHY

Yes.

You too, Gabriel! AUNT CATHY Oooh, very pretty Esther!

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Never imagined that this would happen. His body collapsed underneath me; all breath had left him. (pause) I must go massage Mordechai.

REBECCA (skeptically) I’ve heard that name before! Where have I heard it?

(RABBI ABRAMOWITZ runs offstage crying as AUNT ESTHER, confused, enters past him)

Don’t worry about it.

AUNT ESTHER What happened? Why is David on the ground?

AUNT ESTHER (quickly)

AUNT CATHY

REBECCA Aren’t I allowed to know about the place my sister works?

He— REBECCA (covering AUNT CATHY’s mouth) It’s not important. Why were you on the phone? (DAVID grunts)

AUNT ESTHER You probably have heard about it in a magazine or something! Don’t worry about it! Let’s just take our seats before the service starts again!

AUNT ESTHER You know, if the Bar Mitzvah has been called off, maybe I should just go. I’m very busy, so—

AUNT CATHY Yes, my feet are getting pretty sore from standing so long.

REBECCA He’s fine. David was just about to get back on the bema and continue the service! Right, David?

REBECCA What are you hiding, Esther? (AUNT CATHY takes out a hip flask from between her breasts)

DAVID (mutters) I can’t rub your feet, Darth Sidious.

AUNT ESTHER Rebecca, look at yourself. I get that you’re a single mother, and you feel that you have to raise everyone, but I’m not crazy little Essie anymore. I’m an adult. Maybe it’s time you back off.

REBECCA You see? He’s great! While we’re waiting, how about I take your phone, so you don’t have to worry about calls from work.

(AUNT ESTHER walks away leaving REBECCA even angrier.)

AUNT ESTHER No, I really don’t think that’s such a great idea. I need to—

Give me that.

REBECCA

(Lights down.)

Nonsense, I insist! REBECCA (grabbing AUNT CATHY’s flask)

(REBECCA tries to grab AUNT ESTHER’s phone. She stops when she sees the case.)

SCENE VII (Lights up on the coat room. JUDY and AARON sit in silence. Their backs are on either side of the small table, so they are facing away from each other)

SCENE VIII (RABBI ABRAMOWITZ, standing at the podium, is holding Mordechai, whose whole face is bandaged. DAVID stands next to him, clearly out of it. There is palpable tension as AUNT ESTHER, AUNT CATHY, and REBECCA are watching from their seats. REBECCA is intensely typing on her phone and occasionally taking sips from her hip flask. GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN is still asleep.)

AARON That’s all they’ve realized about you. JUDY What?

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Okay, then! Despite recent events, we have been informed that we are to continue our service. The Bergenstein family does not yield, even to concussions. We will start with today’s Torah portion. Dah-vid, our Bar Mitzvah, will read, while his family responds with the opening and closing prayers, the alleyahs. Can the Bergenstein family please come to the bema?

AARON Sure, they’ve realized that you’re a girl, but that’s all. JUDY I’m done with this, Aaron. I don’t want to fight with you, so please — just stop. (beat)

(REBECCA takes a sip from her flask and raises her hands in the air)

AARON It’s not fair to you — that they wanted to become friends because you’re suddenly “like really pretty.” Before, none of those kids even took a second to actually realize how cool you are— I doubt they even care that you basically have the best grades in school.

REBECCA I’m coming! (GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN jumps awake at REBECCA’s shout, and falls over onto AUNT CATHY’s breasts. He grabs them to pull himself up)

JUDY So?

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN Jesus Christ, Cathy, I thought you said these were real.

AARON Judy you’re so much better than them! You actually have substance, not just looks. And you deserve friends that appreciate you for it. I mean, not me anymore, since I’ve been so shitty. But David is such a good friend! At least don’t leave him for them! It’s not—

They are. AUNT CATHY (growling) (AUNT CATHY gets up and walks over to the bema. GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN and AUNT ESTHER follow)

Aaron, can you please just shut up? JUDY (smirking)

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Okay! Ready to begin Dah-vid? AARON

Shut up?

DAVID Can I say no?

(JUDY turns around to place a kiss on AARON’s lips. She tries to pull away but something is holding them together)

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN (loudly) He asked if you were ready to read your prayer!

JUDY Mah-bwathes-ar-sthuck!

DAVID Rabbi, can we just hold on a minute. I’m not really sure if I can—

AARON Me-thoo! (Lights down)

REBECCA

Ahem!

REBECCA I remembered where I knew that little company you work for is from. I saw it on the news!

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Oh, where are my manners! Perhaps, Rebecca you’d like to make a few remarks before we begin to read from the Torah?

AUNT ESTHER (scoffs)

(REBECCA drunkenly grabs Mordechai’s face and begins to talk to it)

(to everyone) Yeah, probably for our new fall collection release!

REBECCA I am so proud of you. After your father left, I never thought I could raise you alone. Would it be my fault if you were a disappointment? Maybe you’d somehow end up a gentile! But, you’re here today. You’re doing this Torah portion and showing me… That you’re the best son I could ask for.

REBECCA (announces) Everyone, Melanie Kate is a scheme! They recruit easily manipulated women to buy their products, and then sell it to other women… who then have to sell it again. The cycle just keeps going. Essie’s involved in illegal activity. DAVID Mom, is this the right time?

Mom, please stop. DAVID (whispers)

REBECCA No, David. You see, they all doubted me. But look here, again. I was right, and you were all wrong! See, I put in work day and night to provide for my family alone! But, no! You all think my pretty little sister is better than me just because she shows up at my son’s Bar Mitzvah with fancy heels, claiming she magically got a new job. Well, whoop-dee-doo!

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ (wrenching Mordechai away from REBECCA) How about we begin? REBECCA (ignoring RABBI)

AUNT ESTHER Can’t you all clearly see she’s drunk? She can’t think clearly.

Oh, am I embarrassing my son? Look. Rebecca, the family embarrassment. Do you know Rebecca? Yeah, well she ended being more of a screw-up than then her sister. Her sister.

REBECCA How did you get involved, Essie? Did you know you’d be committing crimes when they recruited you? Or were you so desperate for money that you sought it out?

AUNT ESTHER Rebecca, let’s not do this here. (REBECCA puts her lips to the podium microphone)

AUNT ESTHER Stop!

REBECCA Well, guess what, everyone! I’ve got a little secret for you!

REBECCA That wasn’t your co-worker earlier, was it? That was the next person you were scamming!

AUNT CATHY This is a Bar Mitzvah, Rebecca, not Confession at St. Andrews.

AUNT ESTHER I—

REBECCA Essie is lying to you all. You know that company she works for? She didn’t get that job because she’s so great and smart.

REBECCA Why did you even come here today, Essie? Were you going to steal our money too? You were, weren’t you. You’re so desperate for money that you’d stoop as low as to scam your own family!

AUNT ESTHER What are you talking about?

AUNT ESTHER

Fine! There was nothing I could do! Melanie Kate has put me in debt! I need money!

DAVID God, is that you?

(ALL gasp)

(GABE chuckles)

I knew it! I knew it!

DAVID (cont.) But--but, I thought you weren’t real.

REBECCA (turns on Esther)

GABE Delusion and reality are separated only by how we perceive truth, David.

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Really, I don’t think this is the best time to discuss this.

DAVID God. I was so nervous today, but I could never believe it would turn out like this. Can’t you do something? You know, make it start over?

AUNT ESTHER Stuff it, Rabbi. She just feels bad for herself. She never had the chance to build a career and accomplish anything in her life because her “husband” dumped her with a baby and ran.

GABE No, David, I can’t. It must be you.

REBECCA (charging at AUNT ESTHER) Oh, that’s it!

DAVID But… Mister… your holiness, what do I do?

(AUNT ESTHER picks up the bottle of Manischewitz off the table and throws it at REBECCA. Instead, it gets on Mordechai, who is being held by RABBI ABRAMOWITZ)

GABE I think, David, you know in your heart what you must do.

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Not Mordechai!

(GABE disappears) DAVID I do? What is it? God? Where did you go?

(Lights come on in the coat closet to show JUDY and AARON struggling to pull their braces apart)

(DAVID crawls around and shines his flashlight around the stage. The yelling accelerates and the sound of the family fighting goes back to normal. DAVID shines his flashlight on REBECCA who is swinging around a chair)

AARON Jud-y-pu-sh-ah-way! (JUDY forces herself apart and they finally untangle)

REBECCA F- you, Cathy, and your fake boobs too!

JUDY Yes!

AUNT CATHY They’re real!

(AARON is flung into the table from the force and knocks the open bottle of Manischewitz onto a large wire. The power goes out. Lights down on stage. There are slowed echoes onstage of fighting. A single flashlight turns on from under a table showing DAVID sitting under it. We see GABE standing behind him)

(There is a small sound of rupture in the dark, and, a green light glows on AUNT CATHY’s breasts) AUNT CATHY (cont.) Shit! Its leaking!

DAVID Ugh, yes! Thank God for my Han Solo perfect condition flashlight…

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN (from a distance) Get off of me, you big whore! Shove that tiny schmeckle of yours up your—

GABE David?

(The lights suddenly turn on. AUNT CATHY’s clothing

around her breast is soaked. She and REBECCA are both holding chairs, but swinging them randomly and not hitting each other. GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN and RABBI ABRAMOWITZ are fighting)

me again.

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN (cont.) Oh, hello, Rabbi. I don’t think I greeted you yet.

AUNT ESTHER You never realized how hard it is to be the family screwup, never had to experience it. I was always in your perfect shadow, Rebecca. I thought, maybe this one time…

REBECCA Wait, Essie!

(GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN places a big peck “hello” on RABBI ABRAMOWITZ’s lips. Everyone begins to argue until the noise rises. GABE enters as DAVID climbs the podium)

(AUNT ESTHER turns to leave, but REBECCA grabs her arm) DAVID Stop!

REBECCA I’m pretty sure I’m the one who messed up my son’s Bar Mitzvah. I think I can now safely assume the title of family screwup.

REBECCA David, what on Earth do you— DAVID Sit! You’ve all done enough! Go to your seats and just stop, already! Please! Don’t you all realize that this is my Bar Mitzvah Day? Are you just all too concerned about yourselves to realize? Can you imagine how nervous I was that you would care about every single mistake I made today? I was told I had to do prayers in a language I didn’t understand in front of loads of people, and, honestly, I didn’t even know if I believed in God!

(REBECCA pulls AUNT ESTHER into a hug) AUNT CATHY If it makes you feel any better, Esther, I’ve been involved in many pyramid schemes myself. GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN Pyramid scheme? Essie, sweetie, is she talking about that lovely company where you got me all those bags?

(ALL gasp)

REBECCA You knew?

DAVID (cont.) But that doesn’t matter. Now, I realize I was wrong, and maybe you should all realize too. A Bar Mitzvah is a chance to be with the people you love. Being together, to continue a tradition. Families can be dysfunctional. But that should not stop us from loving one another! We’re not all perfect. I think today shows that. But we can be imperfect together.

GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN Of course, I knew! I love Melanie Kate! (holds up a customized Melanie Kate satchel) REBECCA Oy, I have a headache. (REBECCA, GRANDPA BERGENSTEIN, AUNT ESTHER, and AUNT CATHY exit. AARON and JUDY enter. DAVID sees them and walks over)

(GABE exits) DAVID (cont.) Can we please stop fighting?

JUDY What just happened? Where have you BEEN?

REBECCA You felt like that?

DAVID (angrily)

(REBECCA grabs DAVID and sobs into his collar) DAVID

JUDY We kind of got locked in a closet…

It’s okay, Mom. AUNT ESTHER (approaching DAVID and REBECCA) I think I’m going to leave. You won’t ever have to look at

DAVID Locked in a… Are you serious!

AARON I swear on my life. Some man let us out.

DAVID But… why did he do all that for only my service? Did you tell him to fix the power?

DAVID Who?

RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Fix the power? Not that I remember.

JUDY Didn’t get his name. He came in to fix the power and then hurried off before we could thank him.

(RABBI ABRAMOWITZ exits) JUDY David, are you okay? What did you ask the Rabbi about?

AARON He said something about it being his first service. DAVID It was his first service? I wonder...

DAVID Gabe Ornstein-Drucker. That means his initials are… Huh.

(RABBI ABRAMOWITZ walks over to DAVID) (REBECCA enters) RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Mazel Tov on today, Dah-vid! Sorry, I must go. I have to take Mordechai to the hospital and bribe the nurse to get him in.

REBECCA Ready to go home, David? (DAVID nods and REBECCA wraps her arm around him. Together, they exit the stage)

DAVID Wait, Rabbi! I was just wondering if Gabe was still here.

THE END RABBI ABRAMOWITZ Gabriel? Oh, you just missed him. He quit, actually. I doubt the rabbinical life is for him.

ABOUT OUR JUDGES Jim Bumgardner (Professor/Producer) earned an MFA in directing from Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY and a BA in Theatre and Romance Languages from St. Andrews University in Laurinburg, NC. He is the producer for Bergenstages, the student theatre here at BCC as well as a professor of theatre arts. Jim has previously taught at Seton Hall University, St. Thomas Aquinas College, and Hofstra University. He has worked as an actor in New York City at the Lamb’s Theatre, Soho Playhouse, Ubu Rep., Judith Anderson Theatre, Playwright’s Horizons, Actor’s Advent and the Actor’s Playhouse. Regionally, he has worked all along the East Coast, as far south as Boca Raton, FL and as far north as Whitefield, NH. He is a member of A.E.A, and SAG/Aftra. Some of his directing credits include Into the Woods, Guys and Dolls, Oh, Coward!, South Pacific, Company, The Threepenny Opera, Making God Laugh, The 1940’s Radio Hour, The Heiress, The Hollow, A Murder Is Announced, Cabaret, Brigadoon, Kiss Me, Kate, South Pacific, Damn, Yankees!, Godspell, and Kindertransport. Jim is also the co-advisor for Bergen PRIDE, the LGBTQ+ Alliance of BCC.

improvisational shows in various theaters and venues throughout New Jersey and New York. He recently appeared as Dogberry in the 2019 Bergenstages Production of Much Ado About Nothing, and will be appearing in the 2021 Bergenstages Production of the musical, Once Upon a Mattress. Peter is also a co-advisor for BCC’s Theatre Club. Dr. Leigh Jonaitis is Professor of English at Bergen Community College, where she teaches both English and Theatre courses. She holds bachelor’s degrees in English and Theatre from the University of Michigan and a doctoral degree from Columbia University Teachers College. She has published articles in the Journal of Basic Writing, Research and Teaching in Developmental Education, and Teaching English in the Two-Year College. She serves as co-chair of the Council on Basic Writing (CBW), and was recently elected Secretary of the TwoYear College English Association (TYCA) of the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE). Dr. Geoffrey Johnston Sadock has served as director, or codirector, of the Bergen Writing Contest and as editor of Pegasus for 44 years. He holds a baccalaureate degree, with Honors in English, from Brooklyn (CUNY), a master’s degree from Tufts University, and a doctorate from Brown University. His areas of special interest are Victorian prose and poetry, aesthetics, Critical Theory, the Celtic Revival, American Literature and modern military history. Over the years, he has published on Tennyson, Dickens Trollope, Walter Pater, and the wines of the German-speaking areas. Recently he has written and lectured on the Irish Potato Famine of 1845-1852 and the Irish Diaspora. Starting in 1975, he has served on three occasions as director, or co-director, of the Honors Program, now the Judith K. Winn School of Honors. He has received awards or grants from the Princeton Mid-Career Fellowship Program, the Mellon Foundation, Bergen Community College Student Government, and the Center for Peace, Justice, and Reconciliation. He teaches a variety of literary electives, composition and Introduction to Religion at Bergen. He is also the Lecturer of Saint John’s Council (#1345) and a fourth-degree member of the Knights of Columbus. In 2015, the Carnegie Foundation and the Council for the Advancement of Scholarship and Education named Dr. Sadock Professor of the Year for the State of New Jersey at a gala reception in the Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C.

John Findura is the author of the poetry collection Submerged (Five Oaks Press, 2017). He holds an MFA from The New School as well as an M.Ed. in psychotherapy, and is a doctoral candidate at New Jersey City University in Educational Technology. His poetry and criticism appear in numerous journals including Verse; Fourteen Hills; Copper Nickel; Pleiades; Forklift, Ohio; Sixth Finch; Prelude; and Rain Taxi. A guest blogger for The Best American Poetry, he is the Writing Center Supervisor at Bergen Community College and lives in Northern New Jersey with his wife and daughters . This is Peter Helff ’s thirteenth year as a judge and presenter for the Bergen County High School Writing Contest, and eighth year serving as co-director. He is a proud alumnus of Bergen Community College, having graduated with Honors. He completed his undergraduate and graduate studies in English at William Paterson University (both with Honors), and returned to BCC teach in 2006. He currently teaches various levels of English Basic Skills, English Composition, and Theatre. Peter has presented scholarly work at national conferences, and his creative resume includes several published short stories, as well as multiple plays, sketch shows, and

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B E R G E N C O M M U N I T Y C O L L E G E • P E G A S U S

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BERGEN COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL WRITING CONTEST SPONSORED BY THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT