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Welcome to Claremont Prep’s First Literary and Art Magazine.
This magazine shows some of the artistic talents and creative writing from Claremont prep students. What makes this magazine special is that it is the first one in our school’s history. We hope it will serve as a model for future issues. The staff wishes to offer a special thanks to everyone who submitted their creative work. Submitting work that is done on your own time and that you have put personal effort and thought into is not always easy. You are setting an example for students in the present and in our school’s future. Our cover, which was photographed and designed by 9th grader Celeste Stein is unique and gives our magazine a fresh, new artistic view. The cover gives the city a creative point of view. The most important part of a student-designed cover is that is is the first thing you look at; it not only wants to make you read what’s inside, but it represents the individual creativity from the students throughout the magazine, which is what a Literary and Art Magazine is all about. This Magazine is important as we intend it to be the creative voice of high school students at Claremont. It can help give everyone at Claremont a creative voice. From song lyrics, to photos, to graphic novels, these works will help represent the school and the students. We look forward to watching our literary arts magazine grow into a major school publication. A very warm and special Thank you to all of the staff who have put in the time and worked on this magazine: Ms. Bishop Ms. Murray Mr. Schwartz Editor-in-Chief Ali Stritzler-Levine Art and Soul-2011
photos by Elizabeth Segre-Lawrence LitMag2.indd 2
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Contributors Aaron Lee, Ali Stritzler-Levine, Elizabeth Segre-Lawrence, Micaela Yang, Celeste Stein, Mj Carpio, Charis Marcelle, Yoela Koplow, Nnamdi Render, Taylor Lezhen, Enette Garber, Chloe Kaye, Alex Rue, Ari Zizzo, Emily Finnerty, Emma Krinsky, Nyree Addison, Zosia Nahoum, Jack Brodsky, Emmett Abraham, Leanne Elefterakis, Adin Rosenberg, Sam Sherman, LeAnne Roulston, Mikayla Barnett, Jordan Wright, Jaqueline Faldetta, Kevin Pinzon Editors Ali Stritzler-Levine, Aaron Lee, Elizabeth Segre-Lawrence, Micaela Yang Faculty Advisors Laura Bishop, Michelle Murray, Gary Schwartz Special Thanks The staff of Art and Soul would like to thank the following people for their support and assistance: Dr. Judith Sheridan, Emily Khan, Jim Pinto, Julius Blakeny, Anslee DeLastic, all the teachers and parents of participating students Claremont Prep.
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etching by Charis Marcelle LitMag2.indd 4
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painting by Aaron Lee LitMag2.indd 6
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photo by Alex Rue LitMag2.indd 8
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etching by Aaron Lee LitMag2.indd 10
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When I Look out the Window by, Charis Marcelle When I lookout the window, what do I see? Do I see snow falling gently on the grass sweetly whispering cold secrets into the passersby’s ears. Or do I see rain kindly washing away the dirt that has gathered feeding the plants, caressing the earth? Or maybe hail, beating on the pavement, covering the earth’s beauty in its icy grip,destroying all in its path. Or maybe I see lightning that lights the dark and dismal sky. That which causes such beauty while destroying so much. Or maybe it’s just the earth in its purest form, looking out on the sky, representing all that lives on it.
photo by Celeste Stein LitMag2.indd 12
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painting by Chloe Kaye LitMag2.indd 14
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etching by Enette Garber LitMag2.indd 16
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photo by Elizabeth Segre-Lawrence LitMag2.indd 17
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Digital Watercolor by Elizabeth Segre-Lawerence LitMag2.indd 18
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photo by Nnamdi Render LitMag2.indd 20
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poem by Mj Carpio LitMag2.indd 21
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photo by Micaela Yang LitMag2.indd 22
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etching by Taylor Lezhen LitMag2.indd 24
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painting by Taylor Lezhen
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poem by Mj Carpio LitMag2.indd 27
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photo by Emily Finnerty LitMag2.indd 28
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Untitled by, Celeste Stein
I look through the porthole up at the navy water. Above, lights shimmer and the world carries on. The great metal monster we sit in seems like a little fish in the hungry ocean, Swallowing everything that enters it. Never before have my colleagues and I felt so isolated and so enthralled, I know the only thing below me is more danger. We reach the bottom. We are the only people to experience this natural wonderland, The creatures around us are aliens to our eyes, Their white luminescence dances across the shadows of the ocean. Silence lingers as we stare out at unknown depths of this world.
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photo by Nyree Addison LitMag2.indd 30
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Never Follows Never follows me around from room to shower, every hour, telling me that it will stay, it doesn’t care what people say. Forever will there be that other killing me with looks, drawing nearer every time it locks its’ eyes with mine, no. I can’t stay sane for long. Just take your words and go please. Never show your face again here, cause i know that we’ll be. Never ever ever, never ever ever, forever ever ever, forever we will never ever ever be, forever ever ever see, I guess we’re better off apart, please leave with my words and my heart. And as for all these towers, this collapsing corrupt society that bangs and screams inside of me, no i don’t need this society to tell me what’s right, to tell me I’m not right, no. And as for you and I, I want to dive into your blue, I want to know the best of you, so tell me if this society is wrong or right, should I fight for what I believe, it may take me, break me, shake me, to know we’ll never be Never ever ever, never ever ever, forever ever ever, forever we will never ever ever be, forever ever ever see, I guess we’re better off apart, please leave with my words and my heart. Just take my words and take my heart. Although it will tear me apart, just leave with my words and my heart. Never follows me around from room to shower, every hour, telling me that it will stay, it doesn’t care what people say. Forever will there be that other killing me with looks, drawing nearer every time it locks its’ eyes with mine, no.
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comic by Celeste Stein LitMag2.indd 32
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comic by Emma Krinsky LitMag2.indd 37
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sketch by Jack Brodsky LitMag2.indd 39
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drawing by Emmett Abraham LitMag2.indd 40
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paintings by Emma Krinksy (left), Charis Marcelle (above), Gabby Walsh (below) LitMag2.indd 41
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sketches by Jack Brodsky photos taken by Elizabeth Segre-Lawrence LitMag2.indd 42
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photo by Zosia Nahoum LitMag2.indd 44
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photo by Zosia Nahoum LitMag2.indd 45
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A Cold Wind
Candace teetered home from school, fighting the wind. “Mom?” She slipped off her galoshes. The black and white family cat ran over, meowing constantly, trying to get her to follow. There, in the middle of the living room floor, pale and unconscious was her mother. Candace rushed over to her, lifting her head up and shaking her; calling her name and asked if she was ok and what had happened. The side of her head was a dark purple and swollen, and her breathing was shallow. Her mother slowly opened her eyes and tried speaking a few words before going unconscious again. Candace ran to her next door neighbor, who was a nurse, and pounded on the door. “Nurse! Nurse!” Candace cried. A few minutes later, a small patter started, and came closer to the door with every second. The door creaked open as the nurse peeped out of her home. “Yes Candace?” she asked. “Please help! I don’t know what’s wrong with my mother; she’s on the floor passed out.” “What?” The nurse said as she turned back to the lamp she was dusting.
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“What was her condition? Did this just happen? What did you first do when you saw this?” The questions kept coming as she finished up her dusting. Candace answered everything question patiently until, finally, the neighbor agreed to come to the house. The two of them carried her mother up to her bed and called the doctor, the ambulance, and then her father. The father’s wheels screeched in within ten minutes of receiving the phone call. When the doctor arrived, Candace stayed clear of everyone’s way. After a while, the neighbor came out of the bedroom with a mournful look on her face and told her that her mother wanted to speak to her. As Candace made her way towards her parent’s bedroom, she knew right away that nothing would ever be the same again. Returning from the hospital on that frozen snowy evening, Candace’s father stopped at the light. He put his heads in his hands and wept for the first time Candace’s memory, and turning to her said, “What shall we do?” That’s the question that had been nagging her since everything happened. Standing alone in the living room, looking at her mother’s sewing basket she thought, who will take care of me? The answer, it appeared, was that it was now time to take care of herself. -Taylor Lezhen
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Bruising By Jack Brodsky “Suri, Ida needs for you to do a favor for her; she needs you to go to your aunt’s house for a little while,” said my father.
“I’ll do anything to help Ida,” I responded.
I anxiously walked into my dimly lit room. I began looking for my suitcase to pack all my favorite things: Blickita the Blanky, Poochie the lamb and one of Ida’s favorite China horses. I placed each delicately into my suitcase.
“Suri, it’s time to go!” called my father from outside the house.
I grabbed my suitcase and hopped in the car, ready for the drive to my aunt’s house. Sitting in the car, I thought about Ida and her rare blood disease. How whenever I would hug her, or when she would faintly brush against something, she would bruise. “I love you, Surila Call me if you can’t take it anymore, and I will come and get you,” said my father before we left the car. Aunt Evy and Uncle Franklin greeted me happily at the door, telling me we were going to have a fun time. They told me I could stay in my Cousin Linda’s room.
“I’ll do anything to help Ida,” I said again, hugging my father goodbye.
I stayed at their house for several months while my parents went back and forth to the hospital to be with Ida. I remember my father’s words that he would come and get me when I was ready. I packed my suitcase, put on my coat and hat and stood in front of the picture window waiting for my father to come.
Aunt Evy walked in and asked, “Where are you going?”
“Daddy’s coming to get me,” I responded.
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Cuddly By, Sam Sherman
We all knew it had to be done. She had severe trouble walking from the comfortable couch to the food, which was only about a few feet away. She sat motionless most of the day, and when she rose, she fell right back down. Every once in a while she cried, “meow,” looking at me helplessly. One afternoon her illness took the best of her. She teetered over to the fluffy brown chair. She collapsed, and ceased to get up. We rushed out of the house, and I don’t even remember if we locked the door. She was in a small gray box as we rushed to the nearest veterinarian hospital, cutting cars off, speeding. My family and I stayed in a white room. We all looked at each other, and not a word was spoken. We all sat at the edge of our chairs feeling powerless, vulnerable, and fragile as we waited for the diagnosis. A man in a white robe with a remorseful look on his face approached us. He was at least six feet tall and his bony face signaled the worst news was yet to come. My mother started to cry, and the nurse gave her tissues. I couldn’t control my tears, either. My mother was telling me “it’s okay.” My dad--one of the toughest and emotionless people that I’ve ever known--started to cry himself. That day we left the hospital with the small gray box that possessed nothing. The door of the hospital opened; the darkness of the night blinded us all, and we didn’t know our next step to take.
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Dammit My pink Sprint phone vibrates in my hand and the small, orange rectangular LCD screen flashes the name I dread: Daddy. That it is it, he’s going to kill me, my life is over. I don’t answer the phone, trying to buy myself some time. I look behind me and see a very confused Ramon staring back at me. We met at a summer program at his school, Beacon High School, on the Lower East Side. What do I tell him? That my dad found out that I skipped the soccer game to hang out with him and now I’m in trouble? Yeah, that definitely would not work. Ramon thinks I’m mature for my age; he’s sixteen and I’m only thirteen. If he finds out my parents are looking for me, he’ll never look at me the same again. My phone lays lifeless in my hand, but seconds later the vibration picks back up, the LCD screen flashing the same name. God, what do I do? I picked up the phone, hoping if I told him the truth he might have a little mercy with me, but his tone of voice tells me that I’m very wrong. “Khadejah LeeAnne Roulston, where di f--- yuh deh?” My father’s large tenor belts through the small pink phone. I don’t answer right away, too afraid of the consequences. “Mi nah guh hask yuh again, yuh tell me where di f--- yuh are and who yuh deh deg with, so help yuh Gawd if yuh want fi see the eighth grade.” I feel a tear drop from my face and onto my brown and white striped shirt. Well, I have no choice now. “DaddyImsorryIskippedthesoccergametohangoutwithmyfriendRamonwe’reonlyafewblo cksawayfromitimsooosorry.” A ball of fear grows in my throat, eventually making it hard for me to speak; I can’t bear to hear what my father will say next.
“Mek mi talk to him. Now”
Ramon is leaning on the parking meter, one hand on his face. His eyes turn into lifeless, circular windows. My trembling hands raise, giving Ramon the phone. He looks at me with hate and fear. I only hear Ramon’s response, his lies.
“Jack Johnson…Fourteen years old…Little Red High School…In Harlem.”
Ramon pushes the phone in my direction and walks off before I can even say goodbye. This is the end of our friendship. I reluctantly put the phone back to my ear to hear what my father has to say. “Go to school and pick hup yah sister, we’ll talk when yuh get home. Nuh stop pon di way neitha.”
poem by LeeAnne Roulston LitMag2.indd 50
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Flags “Holy sh-” “Watch your mouth!” My mother says to my father as I open my eyes from a deep sleep in my car seat. “Look at it, Susan” my father says. My brother breaks out in laughter, my mother turns around and burns a hole through his face with her laser vision, I sip on my kool-aid, clueless to the world as I giggle at the fact that my brother is in trouble. My father glares at it one last time. I hear his knuckles crack as he clenches the wheel and the whole world spins and we are in the opposition direction. He grabs his phone and makes a call to the person’s house we are going to on, what seems to be, the other side of the world. “Avery, we just saw a confederate flag!”
poem by Jordan Wright LitMag2.indd 51
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Hard Decisions His legs bounced up and down as he searched for a conversation starter. He finally asked, “Do you know what college you want to go to?” “Not sure yet, I haven’t thought about it,” said Aaron nervously. Her hands started to shake as she glanced over her phone hoping for a text message. “Are you interested in anything particular?” he murmured. “How about the internship with the designer that you did over the summer?” “It was fun…I definitely realized that working wasn’t easy. Can I ask you a question?” “Yes, what is it?” he looked intensely into her eyes. “Thinking about college scares the shit out of me. How do I figure out what I like? What if I never do and I’m still living with my parents? Like until I’m forty… and every time I walk out the door, they pray that I’ll never come back.” She laughed, trying to fill the awkward silence while he thought of what to say next. A smirk formed on his face and he began to speak. “You’re only sixteen. I didn’t know what I wanted to do until twenty years ago…and I’m almost sixty.” He gestured toward the clock and she slowly got out of her seat. He said, “See you next week at four,” as he wrote the time down in his calendar.
Poem by Aaron Lee LitMag2.indd 52
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The Fourth Opponent By, Mikayla Barnett rest.
It was a sunny Sunday in May, but this Sunday seemed different from the
“Mikayla, we have to go. Hurry up!” said my mom. Her eyebrows were perched and her eyes were red & swollen as if they had been stung by mosquitoes. My mom, my dad and I all scurried into a cab and rushed to my greatgrandmother’s house. My grandmother’s back was hunched and her hands dropped at her sides as though they were holding fifty-pound dumbbells. “Hey,” she said as tears rapidly filled her eyes.
Her house was filled with cousins I hadn’t seen since I was five. All of their
faces were crunched up and drenched with tears. We walked into my great grandmother’s room, and it finally hit me. The room stunk as if the body were decaying by the second. The once white walls seemed as if they were painted by death and had turned to grey. Looking down, I saw my great grandmother lying lifelessly on her bed. She still had her newspaper and remote right next to her. It seemed as if she were peacefully resting with a slight smirk on her face. I gave her a hug, only to feel that her skin was colder than a brick of ice. Her perfectly cut fingernails looked like miniature headstones, permanently dug into her mattress. The other faces in the room turned to stone as the coroner walked into the room. I saw the woman that once battled cancer three other times finally be defeated by her last opponent. I had hoped that she would suddenly wake up as they checked her vital signs, but that never happened. The coroners lugged her body into the black bag and took her into their black van. A bright Sunday turned into the day that my family had lost its matriarch.
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Photo by Elizabeth Segre-Lawrence LitMag2.indd 54
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A Sinking Feeling By, Micaela Yang
For some reason, the first thoughts I had were about how the water was messing up my hairdo. My feet tingled, asleep, like when I sit cross-legged on them for too long. The ropes chafed my wrists and I wished they had been tied a little more loosely. I watched the sheen of the sun on the water’s surface disappearing. I wondered when the weight would hit the bottom and then how long it would take for my body to be found.
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Purple Liquid I pressed my tiny index finger on the tiny white button on Lane’s door. CRAAACK! The door jolted open and flashes of faces appeared, one after another, but they were blurred by speed. I felt cold flesh suddenly touch my arm and I was swiftly pulled through the doorway and into the dark room. “AHHHH! BLAHHH! BOOOM!”.
“Hi, “ screamed Lane at the top of her little lungs.
“Hi,” screamed her mother at the top of her giant lungs.
“Hi,” screamed her sister and brother at the top of their medium sized lungs.
Then, in a flash, they were all off running in all different directions. With a long green bottle filled with purple liquid in one hand, Lane’s mother grabbed me with the other. The liquid and I both swayed side to side as we were dragged. The house was dim. The only thing I could see was the sun setting. She jumped, pulling me with her into the air. My feet landed on a soft surface. “Jump!” she yelled. I bent my knees and jumped, jumped and jumped until I fell off the soft area. “Where’d you go? Helloooooo?”
“Can I have some of your grape juice?” I whined.
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” I felt a shooting pain in my eye as the room lit up.
“Hey! What’s going on?” said voices.
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” was the only reply. Lane’s mom pressed her face against mine.
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” she snickered and a stinky stench crept out of her mouth. My heart started to beat and I felt a small droplet of water seep down my face.
poem by Addie Rosenberg LitMag2.indd 56
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“Can, can we, we…” a small voice said from the distance. “Speak, child!” she screamed at Lane. “Can we run around again?”
Lane’s mother stood up grasping the bottle harder and harder. Her eyes moved from me to Lane’s brother, to Lane’s sister and finally to Lane. She put her arm in the shape of an L and wacked it downward, letting go of the bottle. The juice spilled onto the floor while the bottle soared across the room. It soared until it smacked little Lane’s head. “Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” laughed Lane’s mom as Lane collapsed to the floor. Screams from her siblings resounded but this time they were not happy screams. Still shaking, I ran out of the house and ran all the way home, never looking back and already trying to forget.
photo by Elizabeth Segre-Lawrence LitMag2.indd 57
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Sure Thing
While she sat there on her bed putting on her mismatched socks, the words suddenly came out, like it was a normal thing. Like she was asking what time it was. “I love you.”
My whole body went numb for a split second and I quickly looked back up at her beautiful face.
She said, “Hello, I just told you I love you.”
And I didn’t think I knew what love was and how I could tell her if I didn’t know what it was, but I did. It was the person I was staring at, and all this thinking made time pass by as she waited impatiently for my response. I looked up again and she was on the edge of tears and without thinking I said, “I love you more.”
Maybe I said it because I didn’t like when she cried, but then she smiled and I love when she smiles. When she smiles everything else in life is better and I’m complete and in that moment I was scared to say those four words, but my whole body and soul wanted it. I wanted her and I knew I would love her always.
poem by Leanne Elefterakis LitMag2.indd 58
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photo by Elizabeth Segre-Lawrence LitMag2.indd 59
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Blinded by the Light By Kevin Pinzon I zoom through the vast field of stars in my ship traveling at a thousand miles per hour, taking aim at my sinister enemies and oncoming obstacles. My eardrums rattle inside my head as the sound of explosions boom all around me. I lean from side to side with my hands tightly grasping the controls, nearly escaping death over a dozen times. I spot something unfamiliar and begin shooting, mostly missing. Nearby rocks disintegrate, their remains scattering in different directions. The intense rays of the sun beam through my windshield. I make a sharp turn, but it is too late. Directly in front of me I see an asteroid. I ponder my fate during my final moments just as that fate becomes a reality. I grow intensely hot and explode into bits of nothing. All that was left was total darkness until the words “Game Over� flash on the screen before my eyes.
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Coffee Beans By Elizabeth Segre-Lawrence
My legs are stuck to the leather chair. “Do you wanna go out?” my friend passively asks me. She is mashing the buttons on her hand-held game furiously which makes me smirk. “We could go to the movies, then Bloomingdale’s if we have time.” I glance at her, fidgeting in my chair. My thighs, shifting here and there on the leather makes a suction-cup sound. She is wearing clothes that I could never even envision myself wearing, much less paying for. Her hair is sleek and styled so that she looks like a doll. I peer into my wallet: fifteen dollars, seventy-five cents and an old receipt from a purchase of a bag of chips and a bottle of Poland Spring water. “I don’t really need anything from Bloomingdale’s.” My voice cracks at the thought of how high the numbers go on the price tags in the store. “How about we grab some sushi or something instead?” She nods and her thin, pale hand shoves her game into her shorts’ pocket. I stand up and smooth out my Old Navy jeans and remember I need to buy my mom her ground coffee before I go home. I tuck away four one-dollar bills and a dollar in quarters into my rough pocket and the two of us stride out of the door.
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Perfection’s Price By Ali Stritzler-Levine Nina looked at the face staring back at her in the mirror. Her hair was down past her shoulders forming perfect curls on her flawless face, her red lipstick was perfectly applied, and this was the face of a winner. Her two friends were buzzing around her with excitement. “We know you’ll win Nina,” they said jumping out of their shoes with excitement. Nina smiled back at her reflection smoothing the pleats on her navy blue skirt. She remembered buying it a few weeks ago with her mom. Mom is going to be so proud of me when I get up and recite my poem in perfect flawless French. I will be just like her.
“Is your mom coming?” asked one of her friends
“I reminded her this morning, she should be here” Nina said, a tone of suspicion building in her voice. Mom got me the skirt and did my hair and recited the poem with me every night to make sure I was perfect to make sure I represented her well. She better be here. After making the final alterations to her outfit, Nina and her friends left the bathroom to go back into the auditorium. As she walked down the hallway people stopped her to wish her luck. Boys stared at her. Girls envied her outfit. It gave her a whole new rush of confidence. Taking her seat in the front row of the auditorium, Nina looked anxiously around for her mother. She was nowhere in sight. She’s probably late. The clock ticked away. Finally it was time to start the contest. The wait seemed endless and with each orator Nina got more and more nervous. She fidgeted with the curls in her hair and played with the pleats in her skirt. Her mother would have slapped her hands. “No nervous behavior,” she would say. “If you’re not confident at least play the part.”
“Our next student is Nina Stritzler,” announced the judge in a booming voice
Nina jumped when she heard her name. She walked steadily up to the stage.
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She looked out at the audience hoping her mother was among the crowd. Hundreds of parents’ eyes stared up at her and she stared right back, meeting her challenge. She knew she was perfect even before she had recited the last word; her accent flowed off her tongue with precision, she stood tall and proud taking in all of the notes her mother had given her. “Stand up straight!” She remembered “Speak like me. Like you’re not from this country. Like you grew up in France. I don’t want to hear one American tone in your voice.” When she was done she was met with thunderous applause from the audience. She walked off stage feeling tall and proud, her heels clacking against the linoleum stage. Nina sat down and was met with whispered compliments from her friends. Finally the stage lights came up and a judge walked up on stage, a white envelope in his large hands.
“Now, the moment you have been waiting for: time to announce the winner.”
Nina closed her eyes with anticipation.
“The Winner is Nina Stritzler”
Her eyes sprung open and she ran up to the stage to accept her prize, a beautiful royal blue ribbon with gold lettering that read First Place. She could hardly wait for her mother’s reaction. Nina ran off of the stage, dodging through the hurried congratulations that came her way. She ran up to one of her friends.
“Ismymomhere?” she asked quickly
“I’m sorry Nina I didn’t see her”
Nina felt her face drop and the room became blurry. “I’m sorry Nina she’s not here here here here…”
Of course she wasn’t there. All of the hard work and perfect French speaking meant nothing to her mother. It looked good for her daughter to be on stage accepting a first place prize for a poem no one could understand. It showed the others that their family had different values, but coming to the presentation took away from her mother’s working time and there was probably a student much more important than her with a film to show her mother. Her work always came first. Nina swallowed back tears of rage and embarrassment. She had proved herself to be superior to the other students and still
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their parents were there to comfort and watch their recitations.
Nina walked up her block slowly, anger beating in each step she took.
I practiced so hard, she made me practice, she made me say the words over and over till I could barely speak, and then she doesn’t even have the courtesy to show up! She felt like sitting in the middle of her block and screaming. She pounced up her drive way and slammed open the front door. She was greeted with loud barking from her mothers’ dog Colette.
“Shut up, Colette,” she said in an angry voice
Nina walked into the kitchen. As usual her mother, Helen had arrived home promptly at 5:30, she was making dinner for her and her sisters. She didn’t even look at Nina as she stormed into the kitchen. Nina took off her heels and threw them under the table. She knew her mother hated it when she wore shoes in the kitchen.
“How was School?” asked Helen barely looking up from her cooking.
“Anything happen?”
Not only had she not come to the contest, she had completely forgotten about it. Nina didn’t speak. Instead she took out her first prize ribbon and slammed it on the table causing the neatly set plates to move. Startled, her mother looked up. Before she could say anything Nina stormed out of the kitchen and walked down the hallway to her room, slamming the door shut behind her. She collapsed onto her bed looking up at the ceiling. She didn’t even cry. She just recited her poem over and over again, the words slipping in and out of her head in a constant rhythm, till she fell asleep.
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Goodbye By Emily Finnerty I was a young, college girl, having a great time at school, and Easter break was coming to a start. I was excited to see my mother and siblings. We were heading towards Florida for the long weekend. My father couldn’t go with us; he had to stay at home and work, like many fathers do. My two siblings, Eileen and Dennis, were both out of college working at the time and I was a freshman in college.
I have always had a tight bond with my family, especially my sister and I. We
slept in the same room during our younger years, and were able to touch hands as we were sleeping in different beds in the same small area. That is how poor our family was. I felt as if I lived in a shoebox. As we grew older we each got jobs and we helped support the family. Of course, Hank, my father, was the one out all the time, keeping us alive.
As the Easter weekend started, I got to see my sister and brother once
I arrived home. My mother was out getting last minute toiletries for the trip. My father was just arriving home from his job he partook in at the local bank where we lived on Long Island. I knew we were in a rush to get to the airport so I quickly packed warm summer clothes for the trip.
I gave my father a gentle hug goodbye. “Don’t have any parties while were
gone dad!” I yelled jokingly, as I was jogging to the car. “I won’t Mary!” he yelled back.
The next few days we spent in Florida were unfortunately dark and rainy,
and, as grim as it sounds, it was the perfect day for something bad to happen. My mother got the call that someone had found Hank on the ground at work, and he had suffered a heart-attack and died right there. Hearing those words made my
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heart drop. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, as if I were suffocating. At that moment my siblings and mother could not believe this had just happened. My father, who I’ve only had the chance to know for 19 years, had passed away at the age of 52.
We rushed home to New York. The following days were the worst days of
my entire life: seeing my father in his casket, knowing he will never awaken from his rest. This had then changed my life forever. I felt like I did not know him well enough.
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Up Close By Jackie Faldetta Many people went to East Harlem for answers from a future president. I went to meet my hero. His powerful voice flooded the bandstands, as people cheered for his hopeful policies after Americans had endured so much pain after the murders of JFK and MLK Jr. I stood there clutching my bike, mesmerized by RFK. My bright red hair (similar to his) must have caught his eye because, within minutes I sat right beside him as he addressed the public. I was beaming with excitement as the blush color in my cheek began to blend my freckles together. “And remember, our goal is to bring our boys home from Vietnam! Thank you all for coming out here today and supporting me.” The concluding line soon cleared the bandstands, and those who came with questions left with answers. I trailed behind the campaign cars on my bike still in shock that I had met my hero. The cars sped up leaving me in the dust with the faded cheers for RFK, his campaign posters lying about, and a story to tell. Cheeks still flushed and beaming, I grasped the handle bars on my bike, and trotted alongside it sill replaying the moment of sitting on stage with RFK. He talked to me, he gave me his autograph, just an ordinary twelve year old boy. “Hand over the bike kid”, said a low life figure about twice my age. His body rocked towards me and he wrapped his filthy hands around the bike. The sun illuminating the dirt on his face made his skin look even darker. My eyebrows scrunched and I felt my face was senseless as I was still waking up from my day dream. “I said, hand over the bike,” the man repeated. “No,” I said. If only I knew he had a knife. I lay on the ground clutching my side as my own blood gloved my hands, and I saw the bastard ride off on my bike and two policemen rushed over to help me as I lost consciousness. I woke up hooked up to wires and tubes pumping someone else’s blood into my body.
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“And thus do I commend thee in the arms of our lord…” a priest ended my last rites as I clenched my eyelids, and blinked several times before fully opening my eyes. I was the boy who lived a miracle, a hero in my own right. But all I could think was “Where did RFK’s autograph go?”
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Claremont Preparatory School 2011. All Rights Reserved. LitMag2.indd 75
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