The Wayfarer 2017

The Wayfarer

The Wayfarer I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we’ll never know most of them. But even if we don’t have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there.

Stephen Chbosky The Perks of Being A Wallflower

Staff Executive Staff Nicole Cook Tia Parisi Editors-in-Chief

Julia Flynn Gwen Pyeatt Managing Editors

Editorial Staff

Layout Staff

Nicole Cook Grace Flynn Julia Flynn Frankie Masciopinto Tia Parisi Gwen Pyeatt Ashley Van de Velde Sarah Wells

Nicole Cook Grace Flynn Julia Flynn Kristin Kiley Frankie Masciopinto Tia Parisi Gwen Pyeatt Ashley Van de Velde Sarah Wells

Cover Artist

Advisor

Ran Ran Home

Mrs. Natalie Koblenski

Art Director

Consultants

Judy Park

Ms. Alicia Fields Mr. Jim Ottney Mr. Mark Thering

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Table of Contents Literary Pieces Life Writers: Tia Parisi Ode to Dim Sum: Xueyuan Xiong * Sweet Success, Bitter Chocolate: Alex Thomas * My Winter: John McKee Sprout: Jake Schmaltz * Jeff and Geoff Are Dead: Tia Parisi, Joey Rupcich * Dear Biological Parents: Sophie Brooks * The Sickness: Ruby Henley Haiku/Tanka: Jack Powless, Kristin Kiley, Chase Cannarella * Shark Attack: Kristin Kiley Distance Between Us: Grace Flynn Telephone: Tia Parisi * Scream: Joey Rupcich Eyes: Grace Flynn Ironic Infallibility: Tia Parisi Ode to Chickens: Kristin Kiley * Let Me Fly: Sarah Bendewald EHS Tribute Poem: Kristin Kiley

4 7 8 14 15 16 18 19 20 22 23 24 28 30 31 32 34 39

Artwork

Jennifer Garson 4, 5, 31, 39 Cameron Coughlin 5 Gisele Gossest 6 Ran Ran 7, 18, 19, 26 Faye Darga 11 Emily Inman 12 Shu Han Xu 13 Jesse Jarreau 14 Nelly Santiago 15, 24 Margaret Sanders 16, 30 Brooke Rockouski 20 Molly Raichle 20, 22, 34, 36 Cheryl Zhang 8, 23 Regina Moran 27 Judy Park 28 Sarah Bendewald 33

*Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winner 3

Writers Life

chairs, not because they need to, but because it feels like the kind of action that would disturb the thick discomfort that has gotten unbearable. “Please remember the protocol. All information stated in this room is forbidden from leaving in the form of words, thoughts, or physical objects. We all took an oath, promising that we would try our hardest to keep the material discussed realistic and honest. This is someone’s life we are talking about! If you still agree to these terms, please raise your right hand and say, ‘Aye’.” They oblige, and the grayhaired man gives a sigh of approval.

“Our first subject will be named Robert Jacobs,” the man continues, skimming through a thick, white packet. “He will prefer the name Rob, not Robbie, not Bob, not Bobby, yada yada, and will be born July 16, 2017 in Omaha, Nebraska, with an Apgar score of… ha! Three! Any objections?” The people’s glassy eyes cement on the center of the table; no one moves out of fear of being noticed. “So far, so good!” The grayhaired man chuckles to himself. “Well, here we go!” He flips to the second page of the packet and continues to read. “Kindergarten…read, write, normal…first grade, second grade, all normal…Ah! Here we go! Third grade!

Parents divorce! This is where we diverge. Following Rob’s parents’ divorce, Rob begins to gain weight, stress weight I’ll bet! And he begins to face ridicule, both at home and at school, for his body.”

Smith traces nervous circles with his fingernails on the tabletop. He had a similar life, being made fun of for his weight. He looks at his own body, still chunky even after death, and tries to feel his heartbeat, but like everything else in the conference room, his chest is empty. When his heart burst at the end of his life, he hadn’t called anyone.

He knew it was his time. Mr. Smith debates objecting. Why? He would say. Why can’t we eliminate the possibility of children being made fun of for their bodies? Fearful of being biased, or maybe just terrified of the gray-haired man, Smith keeps his mouth shut.

“Okay, fourth grade,” the gray-haired man continues. “Fourth grade, fifth grade, sixth grade, all the same. We got interests shifting, let’s see, science to math to reading to…art! Ah, Miss Monroe! I bet you like that one!”

Tia Parisi (12)

The men and women enter the conference room solemnly, their hair disheveled, their eyes baggy, and their clothes wrinkled. Their feet sweep the floor and their hands dust against their thighs, subconsciously trying to scrub themselves of their personal filth. They sweep a little faster and dust a little harder to fill the silent void with their mechanical habits. The barren walls of the conference room perpetuate the feeling of nothingness, absorbing the sound of even the smallest form of life. If the people stopped thinking, there would be nothing separating them from a pile of forgotten ash. They throw their limbs into chairs, another failed attempt to make a sound, and lay their hands habitually on the table. A gray-haired man clears his throat before speaking.

“Okay.” His voice is the only sound able to ricochet around the room. “Let’s begin.” The people shift in their

Artwork by Jennifer Garson (12)

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“All right, on to high school.”

The man exchanges papers from the shrinking pile. “Rob will be a social outcast for the majority of high school, only finding friends his senior year.”

Mr. Rodrick releases an annoyed sigh. Some part of himself always seems to show up in people like Rob. Now that he thinks about it, some part of everyone in the conference room always shows up in the subject.

Whether it’s Miss Monroe’s emotional suppression or her lack of family, Smith’s weight or his insecurity, or Rodrick’s lack of friends or his mental health, all their flaws seem to manifest themselves in the people they write lives for, all capped off with the gray-haired man’s condescending optimism.

“Rob will meet his future wife in his social circle.

They will date for the rest of their senior year, and then go to college together. Any objections before we move on to college?” The men and women stay silent. Out of habit, they all prepare themselves for the worst. “Okay.

Rob and his girlfriend will both attend the local college.

Rob’s girlfriend will become pregnant, and she will drop out of school to prepare for the child. Rob will graduate early and get a job as a website designer for a local, privately-owned business.” The men and women sit on the edge of their chairs in suspense. They know the drill. Life seems like it’s improving for the subject, and then suddenly it will come crashing down. Mr. Smith rubs his knees under the table, hoping that Rob’s life won’t be permanently affected by the experiences he had as an overweight child. Miss Monroe digs her nails into the dark wood of the table, wanting Rob to return to

Artwork by Jennifer Garson (12) She does not raise her eyes from the table, but she does like that one. So much. Monroe was an art teacher.

Never married and with no children, art was all she had. Where she didn’t have love, she built it, molding clay and folding paper to distract her hands. When her fingers were busy tracing the cavity of a forming eye socket, they couldn’t tear at her own hair, and her eyes couldn’t cry because the water would blur the line she so desperately needed to draw straight. Whether it was suppression of feelings or letting them out, Miss Monroe never knew, but as long as she couldn’t feel them anymore, she didn’t care.

“His art teacher will mentor him, helping him through learning disabilities yada yada…how are you feeling, Miss Monroe?” She finds the nerve to glare at him. He does this to them, taunts them and prods them.

He knows just where to push because, after all, he wrote their lives, too. As far as the other life writers are concerned, the gray-haired man is just a nameless, faceless character.

“Oh, you know me too well, Miss Monroe,” he says. “You know I’d never keep your hopes up for too long! Yes, in sixth grade the art teacher dies of cancer. Any objections?” He smirks.

Miss Monroe’s glare remains unaltered. “Oh, don’t worry, Miss Monroe,” he coos. “I haven’t finished his life yet. Who knows? Maybe he’ll come out of it a better man!” He methodically clears his throat. “He will develop an interest in computers, and as a young adult, he will pursue a career in technology. See, Miss Monroe? You just need to be more patient!” Miss Monroe is fine with her feelings being suppressed, but only when she is the one suppressing them. She gives up her glare to continue studying the table.

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Artwork by Cameron Coughlin (10)

the arts despite his hardships. Rodrick sits still, his facial expression unchanging, preparing for the seemingly inevitable tragic ending.

“Look at you,” the gray-haired man laughs. “Look at all of you! You’ve decided what’s going to happen before I even read it! Do you realize how irrational you are?” No one moves from their state of suspense.

“Rob is you. You wrote this script whether you knew it or not, and you can only write what you know. You all know what’s going to happen. You’ve read this book before because, guess what, you lived it! Every life you touch, every script you write, you affect, just by being in this room, breathing on these pages. Rob’s life is forming as we speak. These pages were blank when we came in here. Your thoughts, your depressing predictions, your glassy eyes that never looked up, never acknowledging your influence on this boy’s life, they all wrote this script.”

Rodrick, who has been raking through his mind trying to describe his feelings, finally thinks of the right word. Contagious. Their pessimism is contagious.

“Long before you came into this room you decided that Rob’s life would be a tragedy,” the gray-haired man says. “You think I laugh all the time because I think this is funny? No! Life is malleable, molded by perception, and maybe the next time you come in here you’ll bring a more optimistic hand. Well, here’s your climax.” The gray-haired man clears his throat in an attempt to change his tone. “Rob’s girlfriend will die during childbirth, and Rob will have to quit his job to care for his daughter.” The men and women erupt in disapproval. Shouts and curses fill the conference room.

The gray-haired man sits back and watches the chaos unfold.

Artwork by Gisele Gosset (10)

He watches chairs fly and tables flip and tears fall. He relaxes in his chair, folding his hands on his lap, and waits. Soon the yelling dies out, and the tables and chairs are turned upright. The angry men and women take their seats.

“Do you understand now?” The gray-haired man, for the first time, finds all other eyes on his own. “The reason you are here is not to make people feel what you felt. It’s to make sure they don’t.”

The writers are silent. Their blank gazes are shed for ones of realization. They all focus on the same point of interest, the peculiarity they all missed before. He has eyes. And a nose and a mouth, skin that falls off the bone, and wrinkles that fold over themselves and pinch his eyes closed at the corners. All at once, the writers realize the gray-haired man is more than a nameless, faceless character.

“We are here,” he continues, “to prevent what happened to us from ever happening again.” His fingers coil around the stamp that will put Rob’s life into effect.

“Any objections?”

6

Ode to Dim Sum

During the summer, I went back to Hong Kong where there is a traditional food called dim sum.

Every morning when I am free or there’s someone who can go with me, sit with me and chat while having dim sum for the whole morning, like having brunch, I will go and seek for the taste of old Hong Kong.

From the highest skyscraper to the metro underground, from the most famous dumpling to the cha sin bao, from all over the world, dim sum makes me happy like a child.

When I was young, my family went to have dim sum every Sunday morning.

I love har gow, which is a kind of dumpling with shrimp in it and crystal skin wrapping the shrimp.

Love the way everyone sits in the same place and talks with each other for the whole morning.

Discussing the whole world, political things, or just chatting with friends.

Dim sum is not only a really nice kind of food, but also a really good way to relax.

Instead of hanging out with friends in Starbucks I would prefer to eat dim sum with them.

Xueyuan Xiong (10)

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Artwork by Ran Ran (12)

Sweet Success, Bitter Chocolate Alex Thomas (12)

Artwork by Cheryl Zhang (12) 8

Characters: GRAHAM STEVENS: a twenty-four-year-old pastry chef looking for work.

SUZETTE LEON: a nineteen-year-old, overtly competitive girl who is from a middle-class family.

CHEF: a prestigious pastry chef looking for a sous chef for his restaurant Lé Grandeur Ganache.

Setting: Main Setting: Brooklyn, New York, fall 2016 Scene 1: Right outside of the restaurant (characters are sitting on a bench) Scene 2: The kitchen in the Lé Grandeur Ganache Restaurant Scene 3: A street outside the restaurant (same scenery/ area as Scene 1) Scene 1: (Lights come up, and both Suzette and Graham are sitting on the bench outside of the restaurant. Suzette starts the conversation with Graham.)

SUZETTE: So what are your plans for today? Anything exciting?

GRAHAM: Well, I have an appointment for a job opening. I am very excited about this opportunity.

SUZETTE: That’s awesome! What job are you applying for?

GRAHAM: I’m actually a professional pastry chef, and I love making variations on s’mores and really elevating it to a restaurant-quality level. I especially love adding chocolate ganache, a graham cracker crumble, and fancy garnishes such as candied― SUZETTE: Hold up. You’re not heading to Lé Grandeur Ganache, are you?

GRAHAM: Well, um, that’s exactly where I’m going. Is that a problem?

SUZETTE: What’s your name?

GRAHAM: Graham. Graham Stevens. I was actually named after my family’s infamous s’mores recipe. I always loved to eat graham crackers as a child, and my parents believed that I was destined to succeed by making s’mores for other people.

SUZETTE: Well, Grahammy, guess what? You have absolutely no chance at getting that job. After all, Lé Grandeur Ganache is very fancy. It’s not a place for kiddie campfire treats.

GRAHAM: For your information, my s’mores recipe is very advanced. Trust me, I’ll get the job.

SUZETTE: Nah, you won’t. The job isn’t yours. End of discussion.

GRAHAM: Who are you to say that I won’t get a job?

I think that― SUZETTE: I’m Suzette Leon, just so you know, and I can tell you that the job at Lé Grandeur Ganache isn’t yours.

GRAHAM: How can you be so sure? Are you a fortune teller?

SUZETTE: Haha, a fortune teller? Are you serious?

That’s rich, almost like my favorite…. Never mind.

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GRAHAM: Never mind what? Your favorite what?

SUZETTE: Well, if you must know, I love making decadent orange crepes, my favorite dessert. I’m actually applying for the same job at Lé Grandeur Ganache. We should enter the restaurant soon. You don’t want to be late for your job rejection, s’mores and all.

GRAHAM: I’m getting that job, and you better believe it.

SUZETTE: I guess we’ll see what the cards hold for you.

Although I’m pretty sure I already know.

GRAHAM: You haven’t even tasted my s’mores.

Like a fallen soufflé, there’s no way of saving it, and no way to redeem yourself afterwards.

SUZETTE: Chocolate, marshmallows, whatever. A five-year-old could do it. We’ll see how your s’mores compare to my orange-glazed crepes. I happen to know that the owner of Lé Grandeur Ganache loves the flavor profile of oranges.

GRAHAM: (gasps with indignation, clearly in shock) Wait, WHAT? SUZETTE: That’s right, Graham, I did my homework, and I’m going to get that job. Let’s head inside.

(End scene with Graham and Suzette walking towards the restaurant’s entrance as the lights fade slowly until stage is pitch black. As the lights are fading, music underscoring the mood of a Parisian cafe as a transition to Scene 2. At start of Scene 2, the music fades on a three count smoothly and the lights come up right away.)

Scene 2: CHEF: Welcome to Lé Grandeur Ganache. As you both know, we have one job opening. ONE JOB ONLY! Whoever receives this job will have the opportunity to work with me. Whoever is unsuccessful will leave here with nothing, feeling like a fallen soufflé. Like a fallen soufflé, there’s no way of saving it, and no way to redeem yourself afterwards. Anyway, what will you both be preparing for me today?

SUZETTE: Chef, I’ll be preparing some crepes with an orange reduction and cream cheese mousse, garnished with a caramelized orange slice, and I have spent many hours perfecting this recipe. I know that you love oranges, Chef.

GRAHAM: Chef, sir, I will be executing a variation on S’mores with a chocolate ganache, a graham cracker crumble, a bruleéd marshmallow, and garnished with candied almonds. I’m sure that my pastry school education and overall experience will impress you.

CHEF: Well, both of those dishes sound delicious. But, they sound so….so uninspired. I feel like I’ve seen your desserts before. I want something different, something current, something trendy. You two will be making…. how about fortune cookies? You can incorporate whatever flavors you want, but I want a fortune cookie.

We’ll see who has good fortune! (chuckles heartily to himself) GRAHAM: (frantically, with panic rising in his voice) But sir, I missed fortune cookie day in culinary school. I have never made a fortune cookie before. That’s not an exquisite dessert.

CHEF: (in a superior tone) Excuse me? Are you questioning my credentials? I OWN this place!

SUZETTE: Yeah Graham, after all your extensive studies in pastry school, you can’t make a cookie?

CHEF: Ok, both of you, please start preparing your desserts. Remember, I want an exquisite, new take on a fortune cookie. This is a high quality restaurant;—I don’t want take-out!

SUZETTE: Will do Chef! This will be the best fortune cookie you’ve ever tasted. I am ready to impress you.

GRAHAM I’ll do a s’mores fortune cookie!

SUZETTE: (sarcastically, talking to Chef) Wow, look at his creativity! (starts preparing her fortune cookie dough and begins to place them on a baking tray) GRAHAM: Wait, how do you know how to make fortune cookies? Who taught you?

SUZETTE: It’s called improvisation. I know how to make a cookie and am confident in my pastry skills.

GRAHAM: It’s a fortune cookie! It’s completely different from a chocolate chip or a sugar cookie!

SUZETTE: Well, I’ll go ahead and complete my dessert while you ponder about what a cookie is. (She starts juicing oranges for her sauce) GRAHAM: (talking to himself, reassuringly) Graham, you can do this! You didn’t go to pastry school for nothing. Just do something! (He starts making a fortune cookie dough.)

SUZETTE: Nice pep talk! I’m sure that Chef loves seeing that confidence that you clearly have! (She places her fortune cookies in the oven.)

GRAHAM: (He grabs a container labeled “Semisweet Chocolate” starts to melt some chocolate on the stovetop, stirs the chocolate occasionally.) Well, I’m sure Chef doesn’t want some kid in his kitchen.

CHEF: (speaking in an authoritative, condescending tone) Less chatter! Focus on your fortune cookies! It requires intense concentration and precision. I want perfection and nothing less. You must only think about dessert, breathe dessert, dream dessert, eat dessert. Wait, scratch that. Don’t eat the dessert, that’s for the customer, not you!

GRAHAM: (He runs to the oven and shoves his baking tray with fortune cookies into the oven. His cookies are clearly not shaped correctly, as he rushed when forming the cookies. While Graham is at the oven, Suzette throws a large handful of 100% bitter chocolate chips into container labeled “Semisweet Chocolate” at Graham’s station when no one is looking.) Finally! My cookies are in the oven!

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SUZETTE: Wow, fortune piles! Is that the new style for fortune cookies? They sort of look like cowpies. (whispers to audience) And I’m sure his ganache will taste horrible after he adds some of the 100% bitter chocolate chips I threw into the container at his station.

His ganache will be terrible, and I’ll get the job!

GRAHAM: It’s all about taste. My fortune cookies have graham cracker crumbs and bruleéd marshmallows.

Plus my ganache looks great. I think I’ll add some more chocolate chips to my ganache. (Grabs the container labeled “Semisweet Chocolate” and pours some of the 100% bitter chocolate chips into his ganache unknowingly.)

SUZETTE: (She takes her fortune cookies out of the oven.)

My orange reduction tastes delicious, and my cream cheese mousse is done. They are definitely better than the mess you have over there. (She starts assembling her fortune cookies.)

CHEF: One minute left! You should have your desserts completely prepared by now.

SUZETTE: I’m done Chef. Look at my perfectly baked fortune cookies! (She shows her plate to Chef proudly.)

CHEF: Well, that looks….completely passable! Well done.

SUZETTE: Thank you, Chef. I’m so ready to work here!

This job means everything to me. (She turns to the side and does a happy dance.)

GRAHAM: Hold up! That job’s not yours yet, Suzette! (Takes his baking tray out of the oven, and haphazardly throws his chocolate ganache onto the fortune cookies on the tray. As he runs to Chef, he trips and almost drops his baking tray. He places his dessert in front of Chef.)

CHEF: (glances at the baking tray, and then looks at Graham) You know this is a very fancy, high-class, and a very trendy restaurant, right? Is this what you have decided to present to me?

GRAHAM: Chef, I can guarantee you that they will taste amazing! Please just try one.

SUZETTE: Chef, just look at his plate. His presentation is so― CHEF: So innovative! What a creative way to present your dessert, on a baking tray! Now it’s time to compare your fortune cookies. I’ll start with Graham.

GRAHAM: I hope you enjoy my dessert. I think the semisweet chocolate will play off the marshmallow ― CHEF: I’ll be the judge of how it tastes. (Picks up one of Graham’s fortune cookies and takes a large bite. Suddenly, a look of confusion emerges of Chef’s face. He takes another bite of the cookie, but the look of confusion persists.)

GRAHAM: Well, how is it Chef? Isn’t it perfect for Lé Grandeur Ganache? I think that― CHEF: You went to pastry school?

GRAHAM: Yes. CHEF: Very well then. On to Suzette’s offering. Suzette.

Please present your dish.

SUZETTE: A fortune cookie flavored with orange and some sweetened cream cheese. I hope you enjoy the balance between the sweetness of the cream cheese and the tartness of the orange.

Artwork by Faye Darga (9) CHEF: Let’s see what you’re bringing to the table.

(Takes a bite of one of Suzette’s fortune cookies, and smiles.) Well, young lady, do you realize what you accomplished? This is quite tasty. It tastes like a true dessert worthy of my restaurant. How old are you again?

SUZETTE: I’m nineteen. No professional training, just imagination, inspiration, and determination!

CHEF: Quite impressive Miss Suzette! Okay, both of you, I have made my decision, and I have to say, this was a really hard decision! I have been truly struggling to choose! (feigns a look of despair, but then breaks out into laughter) Unfortunately, this decision was quite easy, and one of you should not have bothered to show up. I’m not going to say who this person was. (briefly pauses, then laughs again) Okay, Graham, it was you. Your dessert was probably the worst representation of chocolate ganache that has ever been tasted by anyone. Pauvre garçon!

GRAHAM: What? (forcefully grabs one of his fortune cookies and shoves it in his mouth) My fortune cookies taste really, really— (Chews the cookie, and a look of sad realization dawns on his face. Then, he starts to stammer and panic starts to rise in his voice) Horrible! This is not what I made! I used (Turns towards the audience, screaming) SEMISWEET CHOCOLATE! (He starts to pace around the kitchen) SUZETTE: Four years of pastry experience, and you can’t choose the right type of chocolate? It’s 100% bitter chocolate with absolutely no sugar content. What a horrible choice!

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CHEF: Indeed Suzette. It is impressive that you know so much about chocolate. I can’t say that much for….

Graham, please get out of my restaurant. Such low caliber cannot remain here. This is Lé Grandeur Ganache after all, not Lé Bitter Ganache, am I right, Suzette, my new sous chef!?

SUZETTE: Chef, you’re hilarious! You should be a comedian and a pastry chef. You’re so multi-talented!

CHEF: Oh Suzette. I know. Graham, leave my glorious presence at this instant!

GRAHAM: Yes sir. (With his head down, he starts to slowly walk out of the restaurant kitchen.)

CHEF: Graham, a bit faster please. I cannot stand the presence of mediocrity. (Points affirmatively towards the door and shakes head in disappointment and in a condescending fashion towards Graham.)

GRAHAM: Yes sir. (Walks out with tears in his eyes. Lights go out right away. End scene. A melancholic melody starts to play to transition between scenes. Music stops at start of Scene 3).

Scene 3: GRAHAM: (reflecting to himself, sitting under a tree outside of the restaurant) I am such a disappointment.

Bitter chocolate. In s’mores-flavored desserts! What is the purpose of my life? I lost the best opportunity of my life to a teenager. A teenager who can distinguish

Artwork by Emily Inman (9)

between semisweet chocolate and bitter, horrible tasting chocolate. What is wrong with me? (punches the ground in frustration, groans in frustration) SUZETTE: (Enters scene having just exited the restaurant. Is now wearing a chef coat with “Lé Grandeur Ganache” etched in lettering on the front. Approaches Graham confidently.)

Looks like your s’mores fortune cookies really went over well with Chef! Well, your fortune cookies definitely went over the counter and straight into the trash. I proudly did the honors. Anything to make the restaurant a better place!

GRAHAM: Leave me alone. I made a mistake. I mixed up my types of chocolate. How could this happen?

Especially after taking Chocolate-based classes at pastry school! White Chocolate and Walnuts, the Dark Side of Dark Chocolate, and Melty Milk Chocolate. Three years of my life wasted.

SUZETTE: (mockingly) Maybe you should have opted for a fourth year of Chocolate education? (breaks into laughter) It’s hilarious that I have no pastry school education and I could tell the difference!

GRAHAM: Yes, you could, and you didn’t even taste my dessert! (Mumbles to himself) Didn’t even taste my dessert….Hmmm…. (Pauses, reflects for a second, then a look of shock emerges on his face) Wait just one second!

There is no way you could have determined that the chocolate I used was bitter. And you were very specific, you said 100% bitter chocolate with no sugar content!

You couldn’t have known that just by looking at some chocolate. That’s impossible!

SUZETTE: Ah well, um, I guessed by how your cookies looked. Bye! (Tries to run away briskly, but Graham grabs her arm.)

GRAHAM: Stop! Now! Tell me what you did! NOW! SUZETTE: Okay, I’ll tell you exactly what I did. I made a better dessert than you. Now leave me alone!

GRAHAM: (glares at Suzette with anger in his eyes) And what about MY dessert!

SUZETTE: Fine. I’ll tell you. But you can’t tell Chef.

(Sighs heavily) I put a handful of the 100% bitter chocolate in the container labeled “Semisweet Chocolate,” which was at your station. But I still got the job! (CHEF enters the scene, with the container labeled “Semisweet Chocolate” in hand and a look of anger in his eyes.)

CHEF: (very angrily, as he is very protective of his chocolate) Suzette! What did you just say? Have you messed with my chocolate?

SUZETTE: (in a very panicked tone) No, Chef! Of course not! I was explaining to Graham how he should have swapped the bittersweet chocolate with semisweet chocolate in his dessert. I would never— CHEF: (now screaming) Then tell me why I just tasted bitter chocolate when I decided to taste a piece of chocolate from this container! You have betrayed me in the name of chocolate!

SUZETTE: (trying to defend herself) Graham wants you to take away my job as sous chef. This is my dream job!

Please listen to me!

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CHEF: (continuing in a louder tone) I overheard your confession from the restaurant. You cannot be near my chocolate. Sortez!

SUZETTE: (appears confused) Excuse me, Chef? I don't understand what you— GRAHAM: (confidently) It means get out! Right, Chef?

CHEF: Yes, Graham. How impressive that you know French! Maybe you should be my sous chef? I did love the graham cracker crumbs in your cookies, and your ability to speak French―You’re hired!

SUZETTE: But Chef! This job means so much to me. I have worked so hard to accomplish— GRAHAM: Thank you, Chef! Suzette, could you please hand over MY chef’s coat?

SUZETTE: (staring at Graham with tears in her eyes while taking off chef’s coat) Here. I wanted this job so much.

I have tried to prove myself as a young, female pastry chef so many times. I only sabotaged you since I thought it would be the only way to realize my aspirations.

Thanks for snatching my dream job away from me!

(Hands the chef’s coat to Graham and runs offstage and out of the auditorium.)

CHEF: Let’s celebrate by remaking your s’mores fortune cookies with some Grandeur ganache!

GRAHAM: Yes, Chef! (Walks offstage with Chef, and both are engaged in some chatter about chocolate.)

(Scene ends with the same Parisian café music that was used earlier in the play at the end of Scene 1. Lights start to dim slowly, and curtain closes as the lights are fading away.)

EL FIN.

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Artwork by Shu Han Xu (12)

My Winter John McKee (10)

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As I sleepily trudge out onto the porch with a matchbox and some dry newspaper, I stare outside at the snow-covered pines in all of their beauty. I gather the ice-cold firewood, crumple up the newspapers and light the match. The fire roars to life, giving me a small circle of protection in this harsh cold. But there is beauty in this harshness.

The world is silent, except for the wind, howling like a crazed wolf, tossing the immaculate ice crystals around as if they were weightless. My little sister, bleary-eyed and halfasleep, opens the porch door and warms herself by the flames. I ask her to tend to the fire as I head inside. I stare outside the giant front room window as my icy fingers fumble for a disc, a CD that has outlived me. The only artwork on the cover is a faded picture of a kid in a yellow shirt with a jagged black stripe and a single, curly hair on his large, round head alongside a tree, drooping from the weight of a comically oversized ornament. As I slip it into the player I slump back on the couch, putting the whole album on repeat.

I grab a blanket from a compartment concealed in our ottoman, and a pillow from my room and my sister’s. I walk down the darkened hallway, only lit by the glow of a Christmas tree, glowing softly in the corner of the room.

I feel soft fur against my pajamas. My cat has decided to follow me, meowing at me to ask me to pick him up. To his dismay, my hands are already too full to carry him, but he decides to walk along anyway. I open the porch door and give my sister her pillow and give her half of the blanket to share. Her cat has already found her way out here and is now lying asleep by her side.

I toss another log into the fire and settle down under the blanket.

My cat finds a spot under the blanket to keep himself warm. I stare at the crackling flames remembering my grandfather, who I sorely miss. He loved winter too, and so does my dad. My parents are gone, both celebrating the early holiday at work.

The only sounds in the house are the CD playing in the background and the fire happily crackling inside its metal home. The wind has stopped, and the snow softly falls. After a while, I get up to get a cup of hot cocoa. My sister does the same. I usually prefer mine with milk, she likes hers with water. We work silently, side by side, but we can understand each other completely. We feed our pets and go back to the fire. Finally, my sister breaks the silence and asks me, “What do you wanna do today?” However, she already knows my response. I simply smile, toss another log into the flame, and lie back down on the fire-warmed pillow.

“Absolutely nothing…”

It is pure darkness, It surrounds me, Light.

Should I go towards it?

I DO. It is the sound and not my permanent death.

Then I feel it, the sensation of being big, I feel like I am on top of the world, I control the roots of my body digging into the soil, Desperately trying to reach the top.

Then I touch something I am not used to, It is a liquid.

It is Water!

I feel Stronger, Bigger, Better!

And then, I GROW!

Sprout

Jake Schmaltz (10)

15

Artwork by Nelly Santiago (12)

Jeff and Geoff Jeff and Geoff Are Dead is inspired by Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, an absurdist play that analyzes the position of the minor characters in Shakespeare’s Hamlet while examining the themes of fate and free will. Jeff and Geoff Are Dead was written to be read silently, not performed.

Setting: TIA and JOEY sit at their computers on opposite sides of the Library. They each type on a shared document.

it would’ve already shown up in italics. Like this.

ACT 1 Drink this.

JOEY: Why is your name Pepe?

TIA: I decided it would be Pepe therefore it is.

PEPE: It is?

TIA: It is.

JOEY: Okay...anyway.

PEPE: Drink this.

TIA: No, not like that. This is in print not being acted out, no one can see what you’re holding.

Narrate for us.

PEPE: Oh. Okay. Grasp, lift, tilt, glug glug.

TIA: No you idiot, like this.

(JEFF gestures to this line of text. Pepe still has a hard time understanding what’s going on.)

PEPE:

PEPE: No I don’t.

TIA: If PEPE is my stream of thought does that mean I identify with Hispanic men?

JOEY: Oh wait, yeah, I’m the Mexican one. You chose PEPE as a name, not me. I still can’t decide if I like JEFF or GEOFF better though.

TIA: I think I’m definitely more of a JEFF. But you’re more of a GEOFF. **** TIMEOUT. What if we make JEFF/GEOFF a Dr. Jekyle? (Jeklye? Jekele?) and Mr. Hyde thing, where you’ll be mild mannered JEFF and I’ll be crazy GEOFF?

(TIA started writing stage directions to show PEPE how to do it.)

I think that’s appropriate. **** GEOFF: Great, can we move this along now? I’ve got plans.

PEPE: I still don’t know whether I’ve drank this or not. Can I see me? Or no? I feel like no.

GEOFF: I think it’s dranken not drunk.

JEFF: I think you’re drunk either way. Har har.

GEOFF: We established this, I’m the crazy funny one, you’re the serious one. You can’t make jokes, that’s my thing! If I don’t have that I’m nothing. I’m less of a person than Pepe!

See? It’s not that hard.

(PEPE and TIA were confused.)

PEPE:

I’m confused.

TIA: So am I. **** TIMEOUT. Can we each have parallel characters that are our stream of thought and we, TIA and JOEY, are judging our stream of thought?

I like it. Very meta and absurdist to make ourselves both creator gods and mere peasants.

Wait, does that mean we’re keeping this in, too?

Oh man. Yeah, it does.

**** JEFF: Ok then, I’m glad we can finally get back to what we were doing.

PEPE: Have I drunk--drank--drinked the stuff yet?

GEOFF: No I don’t think so, or else

Tia Parisi (12) and Joey Rupcich (12)

(GEOFF grabs a keyboard.)

GEOFF: Here, now I can be different and unique. Look at my new font!

16

Artwork by Margaret Sanders (9)

Are

Dead

JOEY: TIA make JEFF or PEPE say something in response, I think GEOFF is upset. Also I’m switching back the font.

PEPE: I think GEOFF is enough of a firecracker for all of us. I prefer to recede into the background if that’s okay.

TIA: This play sucks.

JOEY: To be fair, we wrote all of this in like one mod. And I like...parts of it… Also please let PEPE just vanish into the background because I still don’t like that name.

(Pause.)

(Longer Pause.)

TIA: I just don’t like PEPE in general...which is sad because he’s supposed to be my stream of thought.

JOEY: To be honest, same. We established that rule and then completely ignored it. Let’s think of something else.

TIA: Can I Edit→ Select All → Delete?

(Frantically) JEFF/GEOFF: NO! We don’t want to die!

If you delete this, we die!

(TIA’s mouse hovers over Edit.)

JEOFF/GEFF: TIA, please. I know this is bad, but that’s what humanity is, right? Bad...unpolished...random... chaotic...horribly named? And while we sometimes wish we could erase those bitter thoughts...that stream of thought that is always there, even if it doesn’t present itself...we never can. Because there is a recently deleted folder.

JOEY: As much as I hate this, they’re right. We can’t just delete them forever...can we?

TIA: No….because even if we erase this document 17

and everything in it, we’ve spent a whole mod on these guys. We’ve created them, and gotten to know them (yes, to the point where we wanted to delete them, but isn’t that how all our relationships work?) and even if we erase this document, the memory of JOEFF and GEFF or GEOFF and JEFF cannot be burned out of our cerebral file cabinet (if you remember that episode of Spongebob).

JOEY: Are you kidding me? I wrote my CommonApp essay on Spongebob, of course I know it! You’re right. No matter how far down it may be, JOFF and GOFF are still gonna be in our memories. They never really had enough personality to stand on their own, but they can stand in us.

(Pause.)

TIA: We haven’t even talked about PEPE for the past, like, page.

JOEY: I thought we established that we wrote him out of existence.

TIA: But that’s just it JOEY…can we write him out of existence?

THE END. JOEY: I guess that’s a good enough conclusion. We may not delete them, but I’m sure as heck never gonna see these dweebs again. Later, losers.

THE END. TIA: You never saw them in the first place… sorry…had to have the last word. Word.

JOEY: We have to end this, I have to go to calc and you have Spanish. Seriously, THE END!!!!

TIA: Word.

(JOEY made all sorts of other comments, but TIA deleted them all. ) THE END.

Dear Biological Parents, Sophie Brooks (10) What does it feel like?

What does it feel like having your little baby girl living across seas?

Where she learned to read, Learned to write, Learned to walk, Talk.

What does it feel like?

Do you ever wonder what she looks like?

Does she have her father’s smile Or her mother’s eyes?

Does she take after her father Or her mother?

Does she bite her lip when she is nervous like you do?

Is she talented like her mother or father?

Where does she get her passion for art from?

Is it genetic Or just pure talent?

Do you know that your little baby girl is fifteen?

Fourteen years and three hundred sixty-four days since you saw her, Since you held her.

She was a newborn, could barely see.

Your face is just a dream, Not a memory, A dream that she would like to see.

To see who she looks like, Her mother or Father.

Does she have a little brother who looks just like her?

If she had a chance, she would teach him.

She would teach him how to have swagger And pick up girls.

But she does not have the chance— Her little brother lives across seas, Where they don’t even know each other.

I would love to have a little brother.

Artwork by Ran Ran (12)

What was it like looking at me For the first time?

Were you disappointed, When you saw that I was a girl?

You gave me up So I could have a better life, Where I learned to read books, Learned to write poems, Learned to dance.

Your baby girl is fifteen, But I am not your baby girl.

I am a Brooks.

18

The Sickness Ruby Henley (12) I cannot answer your question.

A lawnmower is trying to start in my throat.

Uh-uh-uh-uhFalling to the ground, I start to mow.

My body vibrates— I tear a hole in my favorite shirt.

I cannot help this customer.

My arm is a bird, I am trying to fly.

Flap-flap-flap-flapFalling to the ground, I start to flail, I hit myself in the face— My limbs do not permit flight.

I cannot play soccer today.

My body is spinning, I am trying to practice ballet instead.

Ruby -Ruby -Ruby -Hello?

Falling to the ground, I am not graceful.

I cannot pirouette.

I am no ballerina.

I am no average girl.

I am A lawnmower, A flightless bird, A failed ballerina.

But l have come to see I am so much more than this disease.

Artwork By Ran Ran (12) 19

Weakening each day, As the leaves sway in the wind, They die and flutter To the floor. But we only See the beauty of the stained ground.

Kristin Kiley (10)

Artwork by Brooke Rockouski (11)

The weeping willow Wears a mask of innocence To protect its life.

Chase Cannarella (10) 20

Clouds are majestic, Tall and towering they loom, Silently they float.

Jack Powless (10)

Background Artwork by Molly Raichle (10)

One might never know the true beauty of mankind, All its potential, And its capabilities, If it erases itself.

Kristin Kiley (10)

21

Shark

Attack Kristin Kiley (10)

Crash, bang, boom.

Liquid like ferric oxide Fills the room, Spreading with the tide.

No sound but the swirling water, Crashing, slashing at your skin, Stained from the brutal slaughter.

For nobody could have guessed That your suit So neatly pressed, Cleaned and pristine, Would be ruined tonight.

As the sun set along the horizon, A deep, dark red streaked across the sky.

Your guests oohing and ahhing on your veranda As the moon broke from its daytime prison, Its light intensifying the dusky glow, Reaching from our world to the next.

The veins of light glowing red, Matching the ferric oxide below.

Adapted from Artwork by Molly Raichle (10) 22

Distance Between Us Grace Flynn (10)

There’s a distance between us that wasn’t there before.

We who used to stand together, arm and arm, Are now separated by a canyon that grows wider every day.

I used to whisper my secrets in your ear.

Now I shout across the chasm, but you don’t hear my voice.

I reach out to you over the deep abyss But you don’t take my hand Or even seem to notice that it’s there.

You’ve forgotten me.

Maybe one day we can build a bridge To reconnect our severed bond.

But until then There will be a distance between us.

Artwork by Cheryl Zhang (12) 23

Monday

Telephone Tia Parisi (12)

Exasperated. He sounded exasperated. He read off the number like he stumbled over a curb. He could be heard crumpling a piece of paper. He paused, and so did I. The air hung with patience as I transfered his call.

I dialed the number, flipped the switch, and then he was gone.

I ran the telephone lines, connected people with people, yet never got any calls. For a man who enabled conversation, I did very little talking. When I found a break in the calls, I made one of my own. I got the machine. Her voice was gentle, smooth and charismatic, a stark contrast to the man’s that I had heard minutes prior. She would have floated over the curb that caught so many others’ heels.

“Sorry, we aren’t here at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone.” I did as she told me.

“Hi, honey,” I said. “Just wanted to check in.

Wondering if you need anything that I can pick up on the way home. Give me a call if you think of anything.

Love you. Bye.” She hardly ever picked up. Always busy. Probably in the backyard planting moss in the cracks of the patio or weaving ivy up the terrace.

I got milk on the way home. Milk and bread. We ran out of those the fastest.

Tuesday

Artwork by Nelly Santiago (12)

Casual. He sounded casual. I could practically see him reading the number off the crumpled piece of paper. He probably fished it out of the trash yesterday.

It’s a wire trash can, I bet, to represent a transparent past. I bet he has a corner office with windows that face a brick wall. I bet his phone has a tired cord, stretched out from pacing restlessly around in front of the desk, dealing with difficult clients and even more difficult bosses. I paused as I imagined it. I dialed the number, flipped the switch, and then he was gone.

It was the same man. I was sure of it. His voice was the same, just without the edge. It sounded strained to me. The phone lines were unforgiving, and I’m sure the tie that was wrapped tightly around his neck didn’t help. I pulled at my own collar. No tie this morning.

Clara left early and wasn’t there to straighten it for me, and without her touch of approval, I couldn’t get myself to wear it at all. There was a break in the calls. I got the machine.

“Sorry, we aren’t here at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone.” I did as she told me.

“Hi, honey,” I said. “Just wanted to check in.

Wondering if you need anything that I can pick up on the way home. Give me a call if you think of anything. Love you. Bye.” She was probably taking Sam’s suit in for cleaning. His job interview was next week. Journalism. For a man who did a lot of talking, he got very little response. People don’t exactly respond to a newspaper. Maybe if we could team up, father and son, we could complete a conversation.

I got more milk and bread on the way home. We had probably run out.

24

Wednesday

Eager. Today he sounded eager. He rattled off the number by heart. That paper was probably back in the trash. I could picture him last night. He probably lay in bed, holding the paper under the light of a reading lamp fastened to his headboard. I bet his father got it for him, wanting him to read more. Probably got him a bunch of books with it. One about Kennedy, one about NASA. I bet they gather dust on the bottom shelf of the nightstand, suppressed by car magazines, Jack Reacher, and Tom Clancy. He probably learns his fashion sense from Esquire and finds adventure in James Bond. Who am I kidding, he probably gets his fashion sense from Bond, too. I bet his bed is empty. He probably straightens his own ties in the mirror over the Jack-and-Jill sinks that have longed for a Jill since he moved there. Nevertheless, that number was memorized, burned into his mind by the light of that reading lamp. I was memorizing it, too. I dialed the number, flipped the switch, and then he was gone.

I called Clara. I got the machine.

“Sorry, we aren’t here at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone.” I did as she told me.

“Hi, honey,” I said. “Just wanted to check in.

Wondering if you need anything that I can pick up on the way home. Give me a call if you think of anything. Love you. Bye.” It was Wednesday. The first of the month, so she was getting her hair done. Blonder.

Blonder. Blonder. Fix the roots. The roots! Then blow it out, maybe curl it. She’d surprise me. It usually looked thicker. As the month wore on, it would sag and sag until the first Wednesday of every month; then it would perk back up. Not like I ever noticed. These are her words, not mine. All I noticed was the way it hooked on her ear when she leaned over her garden, somehow never falling into the dirt. Or how it framed her narrow face. The pointy nose and chin, and clear, gray eyes and her birdlike mouth and thin lips. For a woman with such a petite mouth, she had a lot to say.

I forgot to get milk and bread on the way home. I hope we don’t run out.

Thursday

She called him. I’m sure of it. Her voice was everything his was. Exasperated, casual, and eager, all at the same time. I heard the paper crumble. She stumbled over the numbers, backtracking and starting over, getting ahead of herself then coming back to earth. I could see her pulling on her curls. I bet the right side of her head was flatter than the left because she ran her fingers through it whenever she was nervous. Or excited. I could never tell. She probably chewed on her nails, too, but only the left hand because she used the right to hold the phone against her ear. I wondered if they’d met faced to face, because if they did I would advise him to hold her left hand, because she was probably self-conscious of it and wanted to use her right hand, the one with perfect square nails, to stroke his chest. Her breaths radiated through the phone. I could almost feel them on my neck, warm and sharp. I dialed

the number, flipped the switch, and then she was gone.

I called Clara. I got the machine.

“Sorry, we aren’t here at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone.” I did as she told me.

“Hi, honey,” I said. “Just wanted to check in.

Wondering if you need any—” The break in the phone calls ceased, and I was interrupted. I answered out of obligation.

“Hi, Dad,” Sam said. “I was going to come over after work today to see you. Do you want me to pick anything up on the way there?”

“Milk and bread.” My voice cracked.

“Okay, Dad. I’ll see you then.” I hung up first, but it was already too late. Clara would be gone for sure.

Changing the sheets or opening the windows. But Sam was getting the milk and bread. At least I knew we wouldn’t run out.

Thursday Night

Silent. At least until Sam came in. He opened the door without knocking, holding plastic bags in front of him like armor.

“Hello?” he said. “Hi, Dad! How are you?” He kissed my head. I didn’t get up from my chair. “You want this stuff in the fridge?” I nodded. “What’s new with you?

Any neighbors around here lately?” Silent. “How about the mailman? He told me—Jesus! Dad!” He opened the refrigerator and was hit by the wall of rotten stench.

“Why did you tell me you needed milk? You have, like, seven gallons in here!” He began pulling them out one by one, smelling them, and pouring them down the sink.

Then he opened the cupboard. “The bread, too? Dad, it’s all moldy!” Exasperated. He sounded exasperated. “The mailman told me you haven’t been emptying your mailbox. Have you been bringing in your pills?” Silent.

Sam opened the front door where he found boxes of meds stacked on the porch, behind where the ivy would have run up the terrace. He grunted, and grabbed the phone, noticing the flashing red light notifying new messages. He pressed it.

“Hi, honey. Just wanted to check in. Wondering if you need anything that I can pick up on the way home.

Give me a call if you think of anything. Love you. Bye.” Delete.

“Hi, honey. Just wanted to check in. Wondering if you need anything that I can pick up on the way—” Delete.

“Hi, honey. Just wanted to check—” Delete.

“Hi, honey—” Delete.

“Hi, hon—” Delete.

“Hi, h—” Delete.

Casual. No. Eager. No. Hurt. He looked hurt.

“Dad,” he said. Calm. “Dad, you know—” “Did Mom get you your suit?” I asked.

Silent.

“For the interview?”

“No,” Sam said. “No. I haven’t interviewed since I got my job.”

Silent.

25

“Two years ago,” he said. “Right after Mom died.

Remember?”

Of course I did. She was dropping his suit off at the cleaners. Right after she had planted moss in the cracks of the patio and woven ivy up the terrace. Then she went to get her hair done because it was the first Wednesday of the month. She had dialed me. She was exasperated, casual, and eager, all at once. Asked me to bring home milk and bread. She was nervous, I bet, already subduing the new hairdo with her right hand while she bit the nails of her left. That’s probably why she had a hard time swerving when the other car didn’t stop. She had hung up already. I had gotten another call. I had dialed the number, flipped the switch, and by then, she was gone.

my dad about at Christmas.

He paused, and so did I. I dialed the number, flipped the switch, and then he was gone.

Saturday

I called him. I had heard his number so many times it didn’t seem out of the ordinary. It was a reflex, almost.

The phone rang three times before he answered.

“Hello?” Exasperated. Casual. Eager.

Silent.

“Hello?” He seemed to search for me from the other line. I was ready to hang up when I heard it.

“Who is it?” Her voice was just barely caught by the receiver. She was in the other room. Probably reading the paper. I bet he hid his Esquires. That’s what I did when she moved in. I could feel him shrug.

“Who is this?” His voice was harsh, protective. This was new. Before he hadn’t had anything to protect.

“Do you love her?” My voice came out wounded. I was sad. Hurt. But hopeful. He paused. So did I. “Yes.” I flipped the switch, and then they were gone.

Friday

In love. They sounded in love. They took turns today.

He called, then she did, then him again. Laughing, he probably forgot something. I bet he forgot on purpose, just to have an excuse. That’s what I did. I paced around my corner office tugging on the already tired telephone cord, either staring at the brick wall out the window or through the wire trash can. I hadn’t been wearing ties then. That was back when my bed was empty, before she lived with me and could set her hands on my irritated neck, her stamp of approval. My eyes were bleached from the light of the reading lamp and my mind was fried from hours of fantasy. Maybe I skimmed the Kennedy book so I would have something to talk to

Artwork by Ran Ran (12) 26

27

Artwork by Regina Moran (11)

Scream Joey Rupcich (12)

Artwork by Judy Park (11) Student rendition of The Scream by Edvard Munch 28

There he is.

Who? I told you I wasn’t lying. Look!

What?

Every day after work I come here to watch the sunset— Every day?

Yes. And every day— Every day?

YES. Every day that creep over there stands in a creepy black robe all alone with his mouth creepily agape like he’s got something caught in his throat that just won’t come out.

And you felt the need to drag me here because…

Because no one would believe a sight like this! He’s like some freaky mummy just standing there with his mouth open. Someone should tell him to stop.

Yeah, if he keeps it open like that a bug is gonna fly right in there.

What?

And that will probably just be uncomfy for the both of them.

It’s uncomfy—er uncomfortable— for me right now! I can’t believe you’re not as agitated as I am right now.

Wait a minute, couldn’t you just, oh I don’t know, chose a different spot on this enormous bridge?

Well no, this is my spot. I was here first, and then he came and— Well, no. You said that he’s here every day too, right?

Well yeah but— Well, if he’s been here every day you’ve been here, then he has just as much right to be here, too. Heck, maybe he was here before you. You don’t know. Wouldn’t that be funny.

Well no it wouldn’t because— Because Because this is my spot. So maybe I didn’t get here first but this is my spot. That’s the kinda thing you can’t just change.

You can though. Stop being so obtuse. Come on, let’s look at this sunset...You’re not gonna talk to me because I disagreed with you and called you obtuse ... well who’s being the weirdo now... Okay it’s still that guy. Maybe he stubbed his toe?

He what?

You know, when you stub your toe it really hurts, but he doesn’t want anyone to notice him so he keeps his screams of agony internal.

You’re joking, right?

Or maybe he dropped something on it. Last week I dropped a book on my foot and it hurt like heck.

But you’re missing the point! I don’t care why he’s here, I just want him not to be here! He’s ruining my view!

How? Huh? Like you said, he’s just standing there, unmoving and unspeaking. If anything I bet he hates how loud of a conversation we’re having. Put yourself in his too long boots.

We’re ruining his plans. Look at us flaunting our ability to speak in front of this mute guy. Pretty inconsiderate when you think about it.

No, you don’t understand. It’s not what he’s doing that irks me; it’s what he’s not doing. He’s just ominously standing there like some horrible Halloween decoration.

I would be fine if he walked and talked or heck, if he let out that giant scream he’s been holding in since eternity...but he doesn’t, and that scares me.

How can that guy be scary? I mean look at that pose. He’s like the little boy from Home Alone. It’s hilarious. I mean it’s not like he’s a clown or a giant spider. He’s just a sad little man who looks like he’s wearing his mom’s black dress. I bet he’s just lonely. Bridges are the best places to meet people.

Here, let’s go say he— NO! Don’t you get it? He doesn’t speak! He won’t speak!

He can’t speak! He doesn’t want friends, or our pity, or anything from us. It seems like all he wants to do is ruin my evenings.

What if he’s gonna jump? That would explain a lot.

No he couldn’t. This guy can’t do anything. He stands there, unmoving, unthinking, and I’m pretty sure not breathing too. Believe me, I think if this guy made a choice in his life, he would explode.

But he’s made one. Every second he’s choosing not to do anything. That’s a lot of choosing for one guy.

Well...I...er...no. Choosing not to choose is not a choice.

How can something simultaneously be and not be? It doesn’t make sense.

You’re trying to talk logic about a guy who’s wearing reject friar clothes and has his mouth locked open like a landing strip for insects. He really should close it; it’s just unsanitary.

Look, we’re getting nowhere. Let’s just enjoy the sunset.

It really is lovely this time of day. The reds melt into oranges melt into purples until it all melts away to utter darkness.

Finally, something we can agree on. I love watching it all just disappear. It’s like nothing matters, like... we’re so small and insignificant..like we can do nothing to stop it, to end it, even just to slow it down. It’s nice to know that if something bad happens...I mess up or do the wrong thing or...anything, something will keep going. Really takes the pressure off of your shoulders.

Man you talk a lot. But you’re right, it’s pretty, like someone just took this bridge off the wall of a museum.

No ... no it’s more than that. I can feel it, deep down...

Behind this beauty lies an incredible force...unseen, unknown, unheard. Only I can see it. Only I can feel it.

Only I can touch it. Only I can hear it...It’s stuck in this endless cycle devoid of meaning and choice too, and it wants out. It speaks to me, begging me to speak for it as it sits there...

Silent Cadaverous Reclusive Earsplitting Alone Macabre Infinite Nauseating Gone

29

I looked across the room, and just for a moment I found myself on a boat sailing across swirling blue waters. The boat spun wildly, but I didn’t mind. I could almost feel the wind in my hair, the rush. I closed my eyes, but when I opened them I wasn’t on that boat anymore. I was sitting at my desk. And there she was, across the room. She was staring at me. When I looked into her eyes I could feel myself drifting again, back out to sea. Then she looked away.

Those eyes, the most perfect shade of blue, and framed by dark lashes. When I looked into them, it was like I was lost, falling into their deepness.

I shook my head. I had to stop doing this.

Frankly, it was creepy, and if I let myself get distracted again I would never finish the test I was supposed to be taking.

But I couldn’t stop staring.

Everything about her was… perfect. The shape of her nose, the curve of her neck, the way she tucked her long hair behind her ear. Beautiful.

I smiled. My chest felt warm and tight.

I forced myself to look away and read the next question.

Artwork by Margaret Sanders (9)

Eyes Grace Flynn (10)

He had been staring again.

When I looked up and caught him, we had maintained eye contact for a few seconds before I looked down. I noticed that he looked at me a lot, almost like he was studying me, memorizing me. It made me feel tense, but not because his attention was unwanted.

In all honesty, I stared at him a lot too. But I was worried that when he stared he would notice the flaws that I saw everyday in the mirror. He would see me at an unflattering angle or in bad light. I know it might be vain, but I wanted him to always see me at my best.

I looked up from my test, promising myself it would be the last time, and stole another glance at him. He was looking down at his paper, brow furrowed. I smiled, because he looked cute when he was concentrating. His face was scrunched and his dark hair fell over his eyes. Suddenly he looked up, right at me. He looked straight into my eyes, and it was like I could feel him looking into my soul. I could feel my cheeks getting hot so I gave him a quick smile and looked away. When I looked down, my chest felt warm and tight.

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The rooms live with purpose As I sit in between The washer grinds with wrath And the TV screams with greed The rooms live with virtue As I sit and gather dust The kitchen holds the gluttony As the bedrooms nourish lust The rooms live with reason As I sit amongst the dead Watching pride take human form And sloth replace the head The rooms live with sin As I sit and scorn the zealous Preaching that I lack all vice But forever being jealous

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Artwork by Jennifer Garson (12)

Ode to Chickens Kristin Kiley (10)

While one might expect the level of intelligence of a chicken to be quite high, I can assure you, this is not the case.

For I have no doubt there is not a single living thing that is dumber than a chicken.

One might say, “Why choose an animal that is effectively brain-dead?”

But I have yet to meet a chicken that couldn’t make me laugh.

They waddle, and hop.

They flap their golden wings in an attempt to fly, with the success rate of a penguin.

One could watch a chicken play for hours on end, or even a whole day.

For nothing is more enjoyable or annoying than waking up to a loud and proud chicken.

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Artwork by Sarah Bendewald (12)

Let Me

Sarah Bendewald (12)

Scenes: The first scene is set at a bus stop located in lower New York State during the present time. The day is murky grey, cloudy, and just the tiniest bit wet, as is common weather for downstate New York. The second and third scenes are located in the living room. It is small but empty, with a couch in the middle of stage left, an offstage door to the right, and awkward-looking family pictures adorning the walls. Little else decorates the room, as it is obviously rarely used. A large window sits to the back of center stage, looming over those inside with the threat of the outside world. Rut tends to hide here.

Characters: RUT SLOAN: A boy with honey brown hair and an odd, somewhat rebellious haircut. He is about seventeen years old, and a bit average looking, if not for his dark clothes. Despite his baby face and young age, stress lines are apparent on his features. He has long known the pains of fruitless stress and the despair of being cast aside.

REBECCA: She is a not-quite-pleasant-looking mother of three in her forties. Her clothing is crisp, her hair is always done, her makeup is perfect, if a bit overdone, and her nails are lacquered with a modest, sensible color. Like her son, she dresses in darker clothes, but with more colors than blacks. She is a woman used to getting her way and doesn’t mind trampling a few people in her efforts to succeed.

“ALEX” ALEXANDRA: A fellow student about RUT’s age, and also his best friend. She is occasionally

Fly

referenced, but never shown. She is a loyal, happy soul, always present in RUT’s fondest memories of minor rebellion. She tends to keep him from doing anything too stupid, but occasionally joins in just for the fun of it.

REBECCA does not approve of ALEX. “GRANDPA” MORTIMER SLOAN: A rail-thin man with the voice of a long-time smoker, with lengthy silver locks tied into a considerable ponytail, and sad eyes hardened by the trials of the world. He dresses in faded ‘60s band shirts most likely bought at the concerts they advertise, baggy jeans, and comfortable sandals. Despite living the life of a poor man since birth, he has a cheerful if silent way about him. He has the air of a strong man who has slowly declined with age and an unknown sickness.

Scene 1: (RUT sits on a bench at a bus stop. He listens to music, this being evident by the heavy guitar solo playing through the speaker in his earbuds. His head is down, but he is furiously scribbling away at a paper, writing and erasing again and again, frustrated that his magnum opus isn’t turning out quite the way he wished. REBECCA sits next to him, carrying an almost perpetual air of irritated disinterest. They sit on exact opposite sides of the bench, despite being mother and son, but even that distance seems to be far too close for either of their likings. She looks at him scribbling and erasing, rolling her eyes when the page finally gives out and rips almost all the way down the middle. She chuckles some, finally breaking the permeating silence. A neutral-sounding acoustic guitar can be heard playing throughout the scene.)

REBECCA: Hey, what’s so important over there? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get so worked up over a school assignment. (She thinks for a second, grinning a bit with nostalgia.) Unless it was English. You’ve always hated

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Artwork by: Molly Raichle (10)

English with a flaming passion. (She frowns.) Now, if only you’d taken that passion and sent it towards your studies…or, anything, actually.

RUT: (He stiffens, but barely looking up from his paper, mostly grunting in response. The guitar picks up speed, as if to imitate the startled pace of RUT’s heart.)

I can put passion into things…

(He trails off, rifling through his backpack for another piece of paper.)

REBECCA: Oh, nothing specific this time? Usually you pour your little heart out about all the time you put into gymnastics.

(Rut finds a replacement sheet, beginning to transcribe the remaining parts from the ruined piece. Rebecca leans over and clicks her tongue.)

You’ve written and erased so many times I can’t even make out what you’re writing abou— RUT: (Quickly pulling away, eyes flashing.) MIND YOUR OWN… business. Just let me be.

It’s not anything interesting.

REBECCA: (Bitter sarcasm building with every word she speaks, eventually ending on a bitter note akin to hatred.)

Who, Rut Sloan? Who? Who could possibly entrance the apathetic heart of my son so fully? Who, my dear boy, who?

RUT: (He grits his teeth, closing his eyes while also closing his fist around the offending papers.) Alex.

REBECCA: (Genuinely taken aback) I thought…well. This is interesting. (She smiles, or perhaps grins. It is hard to tell as she hides her mouth under her hand, her general demeanor becoming one of the cat who ate the mouse.) I thought Alexandra “wasn’t your type?”

Artwork by Molly Raichle (10) English and I don’t mix, like you said…

REBECCA: (She smiles icily, sitting back at her place on the other end of the bench.) Mm, what kind of English assignment would Ms. Rochner have you write that has “I love you” at the end of the page?

RUT: (Subconsciously curling in on himself while also guarding the old and new pages.) We’re reading Romeo and Juliet. I just wrap-up my conclusion by saying their fate was sealed before…before they even said, “I love you.”

REBECCA: I thought you said Ms. Rochner was the only English teacher in the world who despised Shakespeare, that she had vowed never to teach a single play of his, and that you thought she was being an idiot?

RUT: (He swallows, nervously thumbing the pages in question.) I-I…I…I put together a school petition and…

Well…you see…

(He slumps into his seat, gripping the pages. His eyes switch from defiant, to worried, to terrified as his gaze drifts down to the pavement.)

RUT: I told you that when I was six. People change.

REBECCA: Not you, my dear. Not you. (She examines her manicured nails, lacquered a stylish, but elegant color of the times.) Of course, that’s beside the point. We both know I can’t allow this. (She directs a freezing look at her son.) Not even a fling. NEVER with THAT girl. (Rebecca returns to her original posture of preening victory.) You always were one to fall for wounded animals, weren’t you? Ah, I should have remembered that. (Giving an uncharacteristic snort) Is this what teenagers are like when they’re close to turning eighteen? The magic number. No more rules, no more reason to listen to little ol’ me…except if you want a roof over your head and food on the table rather than out of a garbage can.

RUT: (Shoulders slumping the tiniest bit, knowing she would pull this, but also knowing that he has lost.) You seem to love pulling out that argument…especially when you’re about to lose. (A few shuddering moans can be heard through the guitar chords as the hope is sucked out of RUT as if by some supernatural sponge.)

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REBECCA: (Her facial expression morphs into something darker. Something not quite easily explained, but readily recognized. It means nothing good.) Well, I suppose that’s because you can’t argue with the logic. I provide room and board, and in return, you sit down, shut up, do your homework, and FOLLOW MY RULES. (She turns her head to the side, thinking for a second, before giving one last demand.) And clean the garage.

(REBECCA cocks her head to the side when she hears something in the distance. A low rumbling can be heard from stage right. She slides to her son’s side of the bench and lightly raps him on the top of his head.)

REBECCA: Ah, our bus is here.

(The curtain drops as Rut disconsolately packs his things, the crying strains of the guitar slowly dying away.)

Scene 2: (The lights are low, but RUT can be seen lying on the couch.

He occasionally nods his head to the hard rock playing through his headphones, and the few strains of a guitar solo can be heard at the beginning of a cynical love song. The lights start to scale up as a knock on the off-stage door is heard.

GRANDPA sticks his head on stage, continuing to knock on the door until RUT reluctantly looks up at his elder, rather than staring blankly at the ceiling.)

GRANDPA: Well, you look properly miserable. (His mouth twitches downward as he tries to keep a neutral expression.) I talked to your mother. She’s determined not to move an inch. (He crosses over to RUT, resting some of his weight at the head of the couch, which is next to the window. They both sit and consider for a bit, GRANDPA resting a hand on RUT’s shoulder.)

RUT: Determined to keep me under her thumb for the rest of my life, isn’t she? (He turns his head away, looking to face the couch as opposed to GRANDPA.) GRANDPA: (Flicking his grandson’s ear.) Drop the act, kiddo.

RUT: (Taken aback and slightly confused) I don’t understand…

GRANDPA: Alex stopped by for a chat today. She told me what you two hooligans had planned. (He gives the slightest of grins.) Despite the fact that I would do the same thing as you if I were my younger self in this situation….(The end of his speech has become disapproving.)

I am still unable to give you a standing ovation for trying to trick your mother. Again. For heaven’s sake boy, if you want freedom, subterfuge isn’t the way to get it. Certainly not the kind of subterfuge that will get your plans stone-walled immediately, and possibly lose you a friend to boot. Alex is important to you. What were you thinking?

RUT: (He groans at the betrayal of his master plan, flopping back against the couch pillows.) Blast it, Alex…fine. So maybe I tried to test the waters. You never know until you try…

GRANDPA: (Sighing some at this statement.) Kiddo, you’ve been testing the waters for years. You’ve been testing them for so long I think somewhere along the line you and your mother started a cold war. Remember

Artwork by Molly Raichle (10)

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when she told you exactly what she thought of Alex?

According to my memory, the very next day you took a good chunk of money out of your computer fund to get the very haircut you have now. You knew she would hate it.

RUT: (Now it is his turn to grin, looking back on the memory with an old fondness.) Yeah… that was a fun day. Alex came along too, took some money out of her Christmas savings to get streaks in her hair. She said she didn’t want me to have to do anything crazy alone.

GRANDPA: (Restraining an eyeroll, but keeping the tone of a gentle teacher.) Amusing incident for you, but nothing short of an aggravating loss of power for her.

You didn’t even consult her, not even as a warning.

You just showed up to the dinner table with half your head shaved. I’m surprised all she did was ground you. (He looks his grandson straight in the eye.) You’re so used to hearing her tell your ten-year-old self“absolutely not,” “never,” “over my dead body” that you’re starting to go off the rails. Speak to her.

Communicate. She can be crazy sometimes but aggravating her just for the fun of it isn’t going to help your cause either.

Just give your mother and my daughter a chance. After seven years of misery in each other’s company, she deserves at least that, doesn’t she?

it’s not. Having the thing you most loved in this world turn its back and walk away, occasionally walking back to you, if only to give you another scar to add to the already growing collection.

(He sighs, shoulders slumping some, while still talking to his mother’s back. A flute and violin quietly start to play, both with a slow, mourning tune.)

REBECCA: (Turning her head to gauge his expression, obviously not understanding this sudden outburst of emotion.

The violin rises in pitch and volume.) I don’t understand you, child. I give it my all and then these godforsaken HORMONES kick in the second you turn thirteen and suddenly we speak a different language. I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything at all, do I? Never did. At that exact second, something changed.

Something I couldn’t see or quantify. Now this. Four years of speaking a totally different language and I only realize it now. Explain this. I don’t understand…

RUT: (His brow furrows in darkening confusion while his voice starts to raise in pitch and volume as he officially throws his rational mind to the wind. The flute screeches accordingly.) You call controlling every action, policing every thought I even attempt to have, and then leaving me behind giving it your all? Leaving me with an empty house, save for two rowdy siblings, a needy dog, and an absentee father?! You’re the one who can’t be understood.

REBECCA: (She clenches her fists, digging perfectly manicured nails into skin. Both instruments calm, the tune returning to one of sadness.) You want to understand?

Fine. Your call. Now, practically speaking, we both know I was given a promotion a little before the summer of your thirteenth birthday. I will have you know that I was hesitant to take it. Your workaholic father hardly came home enough as it was, and you three obviously didn’t need both parents to be glorified ghosts. But then…

Then I did something that I now regret.

RUT: (RUT grits his teeth, seeming to make at least an effort to calm down.) You took the job anyways.

REBECCA: (She becomes stubborn, her posture stiffening.)

Yes. But I took that job because this family had a mortgage that we wouldn’t be able to pay off until your father and I were in our late fifties. I saw myself falling into the same spiral of crippling debt as . . . As your grandfather. I worked and scraped to get into college so I could escape that life. I live in a good neighborhood now, my clothes were either new or in good condition, and I had money in the bank. But it wasn’t enough. I needed more. Our neighbors could provide a college education for their kids, but we would hardly be able to pay for the first year. Was this a sign that I hadn’t really escaped?

I suppose I started to separate because missing you and your sister hurt too much.

(RUT looks out into the audience, considering his grandfather’s words as the lights steadily dim down to black. A few decidedly hopeful notes can be heard from the electric guitar from the beginning of the scene.)

Scene 3: (The scene once again starts with the lights turned to 40%, but REBECCA can still be seen muttering to herself. She faces the audience, running her hands through her hair, slightly mussing it. Her face is mostly neutral with the slightest hint of desperation glimmering through. RUT nonchalantly walks into the room from stage right, a look of determination in his expression. The lights go up as he squares his shoulders and opens his mouth. It is dead silent.)

RUT: Just to start off, I’d like to apologize. It’s come to my attention that I’ve been acting like a complete idiot for the past few years, and that caused us both some unnecessary pain. (He shifts from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable.) But­— REBECCA: (While initially taken aback, though only the crowd can see this, she is back to her usual scoffing self.)

But? But! There’s always a “but” with you, isn’t there?

Always a but with everything in this life…

RUT: (Irritated that his attempts at diplomacy and groveling have resulted in the usual backlash.) Yes, I suppose there is.

Life does have a way of handing you something good and then turning it on you. Twisting it into something

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Those less-than-subtle protests were the only way I could think of to ask you to lay off.

Unfortunately they only seemed to pull the chain around my neck all the tighter.

RUT: (He silently considers this modest speech, seeming to soften the slightest bit at this news. The flute plays a few sharp, pointed notes.) Fine, so you had your reasons. But why become so distant and cold? Why continue to treat your children like untrustworthy six-year-olds?

REBECCA: (Wryly smiling some.) Well, ONE of you is an extremely untrustworthy three-year-old. (She quickly sobers up, a glimmer of guilt appearing in her expression while continuing to hold onto her position as the strong one.

The violin raises its volume as REBECCA begins another explanation. Guilt is heard in every note.) I suppose I started to separate because missing you and your sister hurt too much. And then having your little brother and having to leave him at home with you or a nanny if I wanted to keep my position. I guess I took some of my stress out on you without realizing it. (She grimaces to the crowd, an unpleasant memory seeming to come to mind.) But you, Rut Sloan, didn’t make it any easier. You still go out of your way to make conflict, no matter what I do.

RUT: (It is now his time to be guilty, and he shifts from foot-to-foot accordingly.) True enough. (A look of realization spreads across his face as he raises an accusing eyebrow. The flute now begins picking up volume.) But those less-thansubtle protests were the only way I could think of to ask you to lay off. Unfortunately they only seemed to pull the chain around my neck all the tighter.

REBECCA: (Scoffing in disgust at this statement, walking up to her son and looking him straight in the eye and condescendingly ruffling his hair.) “Only seemed to pull the chain tighter around your neck?” Ha! My son, the grandiose actor! Now, listen to me and listen well, for I may very well blow your mind pointing this out butRUT: (Touching the shaved part of his head while looking at his mother in a sort of ashamed wonderment. The flute becomes cheerful, its notes singing at the unexpected turn.)

Gramps was right in being surprised that you let me keep my hair in a style you hated. Normally you would have had dad shave my head and be done with it.

Instead you just grounded me while giving everyone the silent treatment for a month. . . You were trying to patch things up, weren’t you?

REBECCA: (Flushing in surprise, she uncharacteristically breaks eye contact to look at the couch.). . . Yes. Yes I was.

It went about as well as I expected, but it was getting closer to your birthday and I certainly don’t know what you’re interested in anymore . . .I suppose this is a sign that we’ve been rather stupid, haven’t we?

RUT: Want to help fix that?

REBECCA: (She looks at her son like he’s grown a second head.) Do you happen to have a time machine on you, then? You’ve got less than a year before you move off to college.

RUT: (He grins sadly.) Yeah, I know. But I’d say that’s still enough time to at least attempt to give the “happy family” schtick a shot.

REBECCA: (She smiles mischievously as the curtains close on the scene, her final line running out when the stage is no longer visible. The violin finally rides to meet the flute in song and volume.) Only if you promise to clean the garage.

RUT: Mooo-ooooom . . .

THE END.

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Edgewood High School Tribute Poem Kristin Kiley (10)

Seven fifty start, before anyone else. Yet that time is undoubtedly lost in trying to make it to class on time. One has so much time when walking to class that some of the weirdest, most practical, and inventive ideas are dreamt of. Up the stairs, thinking, “How is it possible to ascend a flight of stairs and still be on the same floor? This makes no sense whatsoever.� Not to mention, the randomly placed ramps. Even so, I am willing to bet that somebody, sometime, thought of an ingenious idea while walking up a flight of stairs, that saved the world.

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Artwork by Jennifer Garson (12)

The 2017 issue of The Wayfarer, volume XXXII, was typeset, and the layouts were produced using Adobe InDesign Creative Suite 3 and Adobe Photoshop Creative Suite 3. The Wayfarer uses the Book Antiqua font family for the majority of copy and bylines. Alternate fonts were used for Jeff and Geoff Are Dead. Various fonts were used for titles. Thysee Printing Service was responsible for printing 200 copies of The Wayfarer.

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Mission Statement Edgewood, a Catholic high school, educates the whole student for a life of learning, service and personal responsibility through a rigorous academic curriculum that embraces the Sinsinawa Dominican values of Truth, Compassion, Justice, Community, and Partnership.

Thank You The Wayfarer staff expresses its gratitude to ENCORE, donors dedicated to promoting the Fine Arts at Edgewood High School.

Published by the students of Edgewood High School of the Sacred Heart 2219 Monroe Street Madison, WI 53711 www.edgewoodhs.org Volume XXXII Spring 2017