2017 Vibrato Book 2

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THE HOCKADAY SCHOOL | 2017 | VOLUME 52 | VIBRATO | BOOK 2

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VIBRATO | BOOK 2 The Hockaday School 11600 Welch Road Dallas, Texas 75229 214.363.6311 www.hockaday.org

FOOL’S PA R A D I S E

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Dear Reader, Dip your toes in—we dare you. As you read this magazine, check your responsibilities at the cover and indulge in a memoir. Submerge yourself with fictional conflict and surreal landscapes, or drown in a dreamlike cove of figurative language and smooth acrylics. Just for a moment, we encourage you to lose touch with reality and take a much needed vacation in this creative paradise.

With this two-part magazine, we urge you to embrace oblivion in “Fool’s Paradise” and examine your consciousness in “Philosopher’s Abyss.” As you venture in, you might find that the two are not what they seem.

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Tasneen Bashir| WHAT DO YOU WANT | Watercolor

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Ellea Lamb | Fool’s Paradise | Prose Christina Yang | Youth and the River of Time | Art

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Audrey Black | Zen in the Modern Age | Poetry Katie O’Meara | Boston | Photography

Michelle Chen | Adventure | Poetry Wendy Ho | Telephone Wire, Long Black Line | Art

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Lauren Puplampu | Denim | Photography Lauren Puplampu | Skater Boy | Photography

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Sabrina Sanchez | Cricket & Clover | Poetry Brenda Lee | Tercet | Photography

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Audrey Black | The City of Athens | Poetry Elinor Sachs | Blush | Art

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Grace Embrey | Little Pencil Poem | Poetry Lauren Puplampu | The Dancer | Photography

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Audrey Black | I Maintain, As I Have Done for Some Time the Following Theorem: No Loveliness Withstands Examination | Poetry Ileana Kesselman | Reflections | Photography

Audrey Black | We Must Leave Them Breadcrumbs | Poetry Cher Qin | Master Crane in Tanzania | Photography

Wendy Ho | Seven Ways of Looking at Hands | Poetry Elinor Sachs | Mom | Art

Wendy Ho | Jumping Into the Tracks | Poetry Sarah Dorward | Echoes of Time | Photography

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Lauren Puplampu | The Sahara | Photography

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Sabrina Sanchez | Third | Poetry Parker Hawk | Las Mariposas | Photography

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Grace Embrey | Dear Indigo Jane | Prose Sophia Kim | 2x2 | Photography

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Elinor Sachs | Drive | Art

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Melanie Kerber | I Saw a Beautiful Girl on a Thursday Afternoon | Poetry Wendy Ho | The Mind is a Vase | Art

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Marguerite Knowles | Forest | Art

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Grace Embrey | Joe | Poetry Heidi Kim | Under the Yellow Umbrella | Art

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Sabrina Sanchez | Music Played on the Red Strings of Fate | Prose Varsha Danda | Meduzsoa | Photography

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Maye McPhail | Cherry | Prose Elinor Sachs | Jenny Kissed Me | Art

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Grace Embrey | Oink Poem | Poetry Nicole Klein | Pigging Out | Art

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Melanie Kerber | Pinus Palustris | Poetry Savannah Corey | Eerie Morning | Photography

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Ellea Lamb | The Massacre | Poetry Sabah Shams | Liberosis | Art

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Sarah Siddiqui | Julysong | Prose Abigail Spencer | Parker | Art

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Kristi Li | The More One Tries to Hide, The More One is Exposed | Photography

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Helena Perez-Stark | Fifty-Nine | Poetry Self Portrait | Catherine Gross | Art

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Ellea Lamb If fool’s paradise is a Moroccan tiled swimming pool, my brother soaks in the deep end with the rest of the waspy seven year olds.

No, not soaking. Sinking. Drowning. Blissfully asphyxiated by waves of water gushing through his trachea, which feels to him rather like a cool hug. Really, he lives his whole life this way. He arrives to school in a white car, returns home to an ivory, brick house, rushes upstairs to his second floor bedroom, and retrieves his favorite plaything from his closet: a sparkly cap pistol.

It feels good in his hand after a long day of first grade math. He slides his swollen index finger through the plastic trigger. Arm outstretched, he raises it to his glazed iris, and gives it an exploratory squeeze. Pop! He presses again. Pop! Again. Pop! Twice more, and two bangs to match. He likes the noise– it is a satisfying clack, not unlike snapping his own fingers. He raises the toy above his head, shooting erratically.

Now, the same boy trips over his shoelaces as he lunges forward to shoot the gun elsewhere. Stumbling across the untied string, he resents my mother for making him give up Velcro. In his sevenyear-old mind, they quite possibly are the bane of his existence.

Misunderstanding the practicality of the shoelaces, he satisfies himself with complaints and whines about having to tie them. How evil they are, threatening to trip him? How dare they, interrupting his play? And as some stranger, armed with an assault rifle, slinks across the streets downtown, my brother is tying his shoes. Soon, his crisis rectified, the boy giddily retrieves the gun from the floor.

He shoots again. I swear somebody else dies in an alternate universe.

Or maybe this one.

Chrstina Yang | YOUTH AND THE RIVER OF TIME | Digital Art

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ZEN IN THE MODERN AGE Audrey Black

delete your twitter the conglomeration of experience which typed that lament over exams is not the manifestation you peer out of in this moment identity theft is a felony. instagram and facebook, too snapchat can stay.

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Katie O’Meara | BOSTON | Photography

ADVENTURE Michelle Chen I. Dream You once told me a story Of giants living above the clouds And one summmer we climbed to the top of the playhouse Binoculars swaying in front of our our shirts Leaving shoe prints on painted plastic

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Projecting imagination through lenses and through drops of salty sweat That moment we shared Words can never capture Your white light-up sneakers bright enough to flick specks of orange across my ankle II. Departure Freedom is not a state it is an occasional discovery of a sweep of emotions that catapult you into the embrace of air above green hills you ran barefoot on and brown dirt you sankk your feet in above the wavering trees that seems to be whispering among hot summer wind of the story of your flight Yet the higher you soar the further away you are from their secrets until all you can hear is the loud buzz of cicadas and the soft snores of clods slumbering acros the sky...

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Wendy Ho | TELEPHONE WIRE, LONG BLACK LINE | Watercolor

Lauren Puplampu

| DENIM | Photography

Lauren Puplampu | SKATER BOY | Photography

THE CITY OF ATHENS Audrey Black

the city of Athens to the sea god, a jilted past lover: suppose I had made you my god suppose I had met your lips with endless praise,

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suppose I had suppled you with flesh and allowed you to name me: to call up a spring throughout my body, a salty river to divide my person.

I would have rotted as I kneeled, left to sustain myself on liquid peppered with grit and mortality. suppose I had constructed you a temple, built with the bones of those who could not survive drinking your goodwill suppose endlessly, but ultimately we are left.

I maintain your spring, but I never drink from your water.

I took the olives and they sustain me.

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Elinor Sachs | BLUSH | Acrylic

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CRICKET & CLOVER Sabrina Sanchez

Oh, I have longed to follow you to where the brambles coil and twist around the Sun’s ripe fruit, a bright, red burst of color in the surrounding darkness, and through the pricks and scratches, we will still find sweet juice dribbling down our lips and chins, when we return home at sundown, with red on our arms and teeth and in our bellies.

Brenda Lee | TERCET | Photography

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LITTLE PENCIL POEM Grace Embrey

The pink hats atop Pencils bobbed in a Claassroom of stiff

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Silence. Suddenly, He slips. The lead Crumbles beneath Him, his broken Body put back in Its case and left in A heap of markers, A relic of accuracy In the company of Neon slobs. A new Pencil is chosen.

Its pointed tip intact. The silent Classroom still Sits. And the Pink hats Dance .

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Lauren Puplampu | THE DANCER | Photography

I MAINTAIN, AS I HAVE DONE FOR SOME TIME THE FOLLOWING THEOREM: NO LOVELINESS WITHSTANDS EXAMINATION Audrey Black

a breathtaking landscape is but crumbs of soil and greenery. a lone birds feather but a pretty remnant of a dead creature. fallen autumn leaves but a colorful nest for sociable worms and spiders…

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and people! people are patchwork: cowardly liars hardheaded fools (mix and match as you like) pores. scratches. scars and stains, ugly broken things thus I propose an embargo; a ban of all microscopes, magnifying glasses, and psychologists.

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Ileana Kesselman | REFLECTIONS | Photography

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Cher Qin | MASTER CRANE IN TANZANIA | Photography

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WE MUST LEAVE THEM BREADCRUMBS Audrey Black

we must leave them breadcrumbs, my darling however tempting it is to leave them the broken glass we shouldn’t give them false hope those feckless disciples might’ve tried to reconstruct a mirror but surely won’t venture to rebuild a loaf of bread

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Elinor Sachs | MOM | Black Pen

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SEVEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT HANDS Wendy Ho

I. I went to a palm reader, She told me I Must watch my ego carefully.

II. The line on my hand, That said so, Was where my fingertips touched in a fist.

III. Fingers curl around a pen To create.

Fingers curl around a trigger To kill.

IV. Last week I held a stack of papers, One sliced into my skin I saw the vivid life in my body between that cut, And later felt it again When I ate a lemon.

V. Teacher, I have a question, If I handed you my paper last week But I turned it in with my a click of a mouse Would I have clicked a paper to You last week?

VI. I saw the veins on My grandmother’s hand; I saw, too, the paper thin skin, Wrapping loosely around age And bulging, blue life.

VII. She looked across the shining water Felt the grains of sand like fabric.

Once, a fear gripped her, But she could not feel its hands.

Only the bruises and cuts It left.

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Sarah Dorward | ECHOES OF TIME | Photography

27 JUMPING INTO THE TRACKS Wendy Ho

He thought about the yellow line that said ‘do not cross’ in front of the subway tracks often.

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Lauren Puplampu | THE SAHARA | Photography

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Parker Hawk | LAS MARIPOSAS | Photography

THIRD

Sabrina Sanchez Yellow delight, delicately frosted lemon cakes and the buzz of honeybees flitting from each daffodil to the next.

Butter moon, smiling up in the sky and reflection on the world (free, momentarily, from her twin’s Midas touch).

The lightest, airiest sweetness: color of innocence, color of bliss.

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DEAR INDIGO JANE Grace Embrey

Today will be a quiet day. It’s been quiet since you left. Not much has changed in the last six months. All the crops have burned, Sparky ran away, and God knows when this drought will end. It’s sure been tough after the war. It’s really swell that you’ve been doing your schooling over in the city. We hear you’re learning about the government and the chemistry and all. We’re all real proud and hear you’re real good at it. Thinking about you takes our mind off things like the general store burning down last week. We sure are excited to see you soon!

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Sophia Kim | 2X2 | Photography

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Nicole Klein | PIGGING OUT | Oil Paint

OINK POEM Grace Embrey

Each day the piglets roll their skirts In sludge and mud and slime and dirt.

Their tummies colored brown all day, But they never seem to stay away.

Then Mama and Grandma join the herd, With Papa and Grandpa and Lenard the bird.

“Oink! Oink!” the piglets sing their song As they dance and prance and swim along.

“Oink! Oink!” They sing as they swirl in clay.

“Oink! Oink!” They sing for the rest of the day.

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Elinor Sachs | DRIVE | Acrylic

Melanie Kerber

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he stands against the wooden sky (a backdrop for a play i have long since forgotten the words to-) and pine by pine weaves upon the dirt the welcome i have missed. each cone holds the promise of another life spent - he gives so many and i am somehow still only one. it is the largest tree which can block the sun i have heard pine is the best to build a house or a promise (of a time where laughter was free;) he grows 500 years and takes a fraction of my breath along.

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Savannah Corey | EERIE MORNING | Photography

I SAW A BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON A THURSDAY AFTERNOON Melanie Kerber

when you see modern art you do not ask why

nor

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how

but merely offer up your heart as penance.

Wendy Ho | THE MIND IS A VASE | Watercolor

THE MASSACRE Ellea Lamb

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The ants were my first choice.

I observed them ephemerally, Each glorious twitch of their jointed legs, Snap of the mandible, Glow of the thorax.

They dodged me expertly, Too speedy, too small for me to pinch between fingers.

Instead, I plucked sixteen pill bugs off the sidewalk And sat them in a lidless shoebox.

Some somersaulted in lazy circles, Others stretched out on their backs, Each furling and unfurling, Fluttering their furry legs.

I left them to find a magnifying glass, But I accidently stayed an extra week.

When I returned to the box of curled up woodlouse, I paused to admire their metallic armor And waited for their willowy wave.

But their legs were not moving, And their arms were not waving.

This would not have happened to the ants.

I should have tried to catch them instead.

Sabah Shams | LIBEROSIS | Pen on Watercolor

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Marguerite Knowles | FOREST | Acrylic

JULYSONG

Sarah Siddiqui July has always been a game of waiting. Waiting for the nightly chase of stars across an inky sky. Waiting for the oppressive heat to retreat into smoky August. Waiting for something to happen. The air was laden with wisps of barbeque smoke and melted ice cream and sun toasted magnolias. Cicadas chirped belligerently, urging the world to wake up and witness the glorious sky. The muffled sounds of the television had long since subsided from the door leading inside. My family had gone to sleep, so I could thread my fingers into the grass without fear of being scolded for not sleeping.

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When I was younger, my eyes practiced tracing the stars, straining to catch the flickering pulse that set stars apart from planets, a telltale heartbeat in a roiling sea above. In the heavy quiet of mid-July nights, it was the sky that made mosquitoes and sweltering heat tolerable. Despite all the trials of Texan summers, the slice of sky above my backyard made home the only place I’d choose to be. Those winking pinpricks of light seemed to say, “We understand. You are not alone.” And though I’ve since stopped seeking frequent refuge in the sky, the sight of a star cutting across lightyears and atmospheres to gleam through my city fog still elicits that sense of quiet belonging.

Sometimes I catch myself reenacting a childish ritual that lingers, half-forgotten, in the dusty archives of my memory. Dangling above the moon-cool grass, removed from the thrum of cicadas and tiger lilies and cats rustling through rosebushes, the stars seemed so distant sometimes. To exist in negative space, to be visible only when most people closed their eyes—it was the most tragic sense of loneliness. Even the constellations traced above were fabrications, hollow relationships between stars lightyears apart. So when the sky winked with a million eyes to comfort a girl whose mind with the perfumed summer wind, the girl made a promise to reciprocate; she’d toss a reckless wish up into the cosmos, praying that her childhood stars were doing alright.

July sings a melody of starlight and silence, recalling memories of rooftops in Karachi, where mango trees and date palms swayed beneath our heads and the hum of electric poles in the distance. In the scent of hot flowers and toasted grass, I hear a rhythm that beats the sky across my homes on either half of the globe. And in all the years that pass, I can hear my home in the sky on the smoky wind of July.

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Abigail Spencer | PARKER | Colored Pencil

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JOE

Grace Embrey A dash of lait blanc Falls into a bitter brown cup, a liquid alarm clock that melts with the sweet cream, a cordial waltz fit only for the earliest of mornings.

The smell snaps at my nose, and The sun melts away the fog.

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Heidi Kim | UNDER THE YELLOW UMBRELLA | Oil on Canvas

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Kristi Li | THE MORE ONE TRIES TO HIDE, THE MORE ONE IS EXPOSED | Photography

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MUSIC PLAYED ON THE RED STRINGS OF FATE Sabrina Sanchez

Varsha Danda | MEDUSOZOA | Photography

I

brace myself against the chipped porcelain of the sink with cold, clammy hands, shaking ever so slightly as I glance up to meet my reflection’s uncertain eyes. The dim bathroom lighting gives him a distant, half-dead transparency that only serves to exaggerate my ragged, gaunt features. If I’m honest, I look terrible, like I’m dying a slow, agonizing death, like I should be hospitalized for some rare disease that makes your skin fall off in chunks until you can be scientifically classified as a zombie and they have to ship you off to Area 51 for further research. I thread my fingers through my wild curls, tugging on them in an attempt to propel myself back into reality, but it’s no use. With shaky breaths, I force my lungs to accept the smoky air that hangs above and around me. I clasp the edge of the sink tighter, even as I lose my grip on sanity, contemplating ripping apart my own chest cavity in order to claw out my still quivering heart. If such a thing were possible, I probably wouldn’t be here now, but the fact stands that I am here, at the same Halloween party as my best friend and bandmate turned sworn enemy, Aristotle Calderon, and he’s as picture-perfect as ever, leaning up against the bar and trailing his long fingers up and down some pretty girl’s spine. He was never one to get distracted by a pretty face back when I knew him, but I guess we’ve both fallen into vice since the split.

self convinced that it’s only a matter of time before my body gives out on me, and until then, the goal is to live as authentically as possible, fast, dangerous, and without regrets.

I want to go out with style, full on supernova rather than a gradual fizzling out.

I remember our last conversation, two years ago, not too long after we formally broke up as a band. He called me an ice sculpture, fragile and cold, and I called him a pretentious wannabe for even bothering to come up with a metaphor for someone he supposedly couldn’t stand. I’m a big proponent of telling it how it is, which might explain why he’s a better lyricist than me, but at least I’m honest about being full of it instead of trying to hide behind poetics. Unfortunately, I don’t really have anything on Ari these days. In fact, my life has pretty much imploded without him. I can’t remember the last time life felt worth living, let alone the last time I experienced genuine happiness. At this point, I’ve got my-

I look into the mirror again, settle into the ct the way one might into well-worn leather boots that have molded to the shape of his feet, take one more deep breath, and step back out into the crowd, hardened to the world. I’m starting to worry that my once-perfected mirage of happiness comes across a bit more like carefree cynicism, but it’s the best I have. I spot him immediately across the room, having moved on from his initial target to cast his spell on the host, an old mutual friend. I hate to admit that for a moment my shell cracks, and I yearn just a little for his arm tossed lightly over my shoulder, my fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck, our laughter swirling into

I know if I leave the safety of the bathroom, I’ll have to face him, but the Indigo Estelle I have often pretended to be wouldn’t care, even if the Indigo Estelle I really am dreads it with every fiber of his being. It’s simple to slip into his persona, brave Indy, cocky, humorous, amicable Indy. A quirk of the eyebrow and a tug at the corner of the lips, laid-back posture, opening out instead of folding in, and always the warmest, most sincere laughter I can muster, these are the things that distinguish him from me. Before the split, I think he was real, that I really, truly was that guy at heart, so I wonder when somber, sardonic, self-deprecating Indy was born and how he became the dominant personality. He must have appeared before the schism, probably even caused it, but I can’t quite remember when happiness and banter became solely a stage presence instead of a reality. I imagine dark-side Indy has happy Indy chained up somewhere in the corner of my mind and pokes him a little whenever it’s time to convince someone that I’m fine and not rotting away ever so slowly.

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SYMPHONIC

MELODY.

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Suddenly, I have found myself neck-deep in the worst part of estrangement: once you really know someone, you can never unknow him. I’m still painfully aware of Ari’s little quirks, the way he rubs his neck when he’s nervous, what he orders at IHOP after a show, and the songs he listens to while driving at night. I can only assume he feels the same way about me, catches himself thinking of me when Radiohead comes on shuffle or when he plays a show in Austin where we were unfortunate enough to first cross paths. I’m not sure if he’s noticed me yet, not even sure if I want him to, but as I move not quite nonchalantly through the crowd, I keep my eyes fixated on him like a hunter stalking his prey despite being all too conscious of the fact that between the two of us I am not the one in a position of power.

It’s almost shameful, my growing eagerness to confront him, dredge up old arguments, reopen old wounds, but I’m not quite ready, haven’t quite found an opening. I’m not too proud to admit that I’m scared of needing him again, that I’ll see his face and hear his voice and fall too far too fast. As of now, I don’t miss him; I know exactly why I left. He got too arrogant for my taste, started caring about all the phony, insignificant nonsense that comes with the territory, took his brilliant mind and started using it to contribute to the system we once talked about hating. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate him for changing; I’m all too aware that I’ve changed too, but god, I guess I figured we’d change in similar ways.

By the time I start noticing his eyes flicking in my direction and his hands twitching at his sides, I’ve worked through six years of unresolved, overblown arguments and how they somehow ended up ruining my life. Not gonna lie, I’m restless and volatile by nature, and I’ve finally reached my tipping point, just daring enough to catch his eye instead of looking away. I’ve got him where I want him now, confused and a little scared while I’ve been mentally preparing for the past half hour; it’s time to strike.

“Ari! What the hell, man, long time no see!” I walk up to him, smiling with my mouth but

not my eyes. Part of me wants to slap him on the back, make him uncomfortable, but the rational part of me knows that touching him would burn me to my core. Still, he twitches slightly as I approach, falters at my familiarity.

“Indy?” He keeps his voice surprisingly steady, a carefully placed knife in my fragile façade though it remains soft and smooth as always. “I didn’t know you were going to be here. Want to get a drink?” Well, I admit I wasn’t expecting that.

“Sure, it’d be nice to catch up.” If he wants to play this game, I’ll play it. “What are you working on these days?”

“Honestly? Not much.” I openly scoff at his statement prompting a subtle raise of the eyebrows. He’s full of surprises tonight, but isn’t he always? “What about you?”

“I’ve been dabbling, I guess, been a little distracted lately. Still, I can’t pretend I’m not shocked to hear you admit that your muse is on vacation.”

“She’s as fickle as ever.” He flashes a genuine smile, a little sparkle in his eyes, and for a second, I recognize my best friend under all the industry glamor. I should’ve known he always wins. “So, how’s Stella doing?”

Haven’t seen him in years, and he’s still not above teasing me about my girlfriend, well, ex-girlfriend.

I can’t suppress my sad smile, “We’re on a break.” A permanent one.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” He gives me a sympathetic glance, and his eye twitches, and I can tell he’s made up his mind to say something real. “Listen, Indy, I know you’re not going to say it, so I’m going to.”

I look away, anticipating the way his voice breaks. “Please don’t.”

“Indy, I—” “Ari, I don’t want to hear you apologize, and you’re right, I’m not going to. We both said some terrible stuff that destroyed our

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friendship and our band, and it doesn’t matter because nothing we do can ever change it.”

my ear, and the fondness in his voice nearly makes me break. “It’s all in the past now.”

“Do you really believe that?” I freeze, eyes blank. “I mean, do you really believe that we can never be friends again, that everything we had is ruined? Indy, it’s been over two years since we last saw each other. You’re not still mad, are you? If you are, say so, because I was about to ask if you wanted to hang out and write sometime.” For the first time he looks genuinely vulnerable, not bitter or mad, but a little concerned, as though he really can’t conceptualize the cycle of grief I’ve experienced again and again over the past few years.

“Call me.” I say, and pull away from his embrace, too fractured to meet his eyes. I just pull my jacket tighter around me and make my escape. I fully recognize that he’s not the person I want him to be, but even as I flee the building, I find myself falling back into his gravitational field, swirling ever closer to our imminent collision, to the moment my life and his life are inextricably twined once again.

Truthfully, I don’t have an answer to that. I’m not mad at him so much as I’m mad at my life and circumstances and the world, but some part of me can’t reconcile the guy who was a brother to me and the guy who nearly let me wreck myself beyond repair. “Sure, why not?” I don’t know who says it, broken Indy or recovering Indy, but I hate him, whoever he is. I hate myself, but I don’t hate the grin that breaks out on Ari’s face or the way his green-brown eyes shine in the light, and when he moves to hug me, I melt into his embrace instead of pulling away. I haven’t felt the warmth of another person in a long time, can barely remember what it feels like to have someone care about you. I bury my head in his shoulder and just breathe, and neither of us pulls away, so I just stay there, and when I start to shake, he just keeps holding me. It’s humiliating, but I’m almost glad for it. I can’t pretend I don’t miss him; after all, he was my best friend for nearly a decade, my sole confidant, practically my brother, and it got to the point where I hardly recognized him, and god, I have missed Aristotle Calderon for so incredibly long, but something prevents me from voicing that longing. I can’t afford to release my vulnerabilities after having fought so long and so hard to get away from the person he became. The way he sees it, maybe not all is lost for the two of us, but the way I see it, we’re starting back over at square negative one.

“Hey, Indy, it’s okay,” He whispers gently in

The cool night air feels good after the stuffiness of the crowded venue, and I begin to breathe properly again as I hail a cab.

On the way back to my apartment, I allow myself to get lost in the smell of black ice air freshener and the psychedelic view of neon lights blurring together outside my window.

Part of me is at peace for the first time in a long time, but the rest of me feels emotionally exhausted and almost betrayed by the events of the night. If I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure if I believe that Ari’s really back to his old self. I think he’s got a case of writer’s block and he misses the way things were, but I don’t think he really understands the scope of what’s happened in the two-ish years we’ve been apart. Actually, reconnecting with Ari might be the worst mistake I could make right now. If I know one thing, it’s that you can’t repeat the past, and no matter how much love may or may not exist between us, circumstances have changed. I’ve changed too, and I can’t retcon all these months of growth just for the sake of reviving an old friendship, especially not a friendship as intensely turbulent and passionate as the one that once existed between the two of us. Still, even all of that doesn’t stop me from smiling when my phone lights up with a name it hasn’t seen in a long time. I know my problem is deeper and broader than just the two of us; I can’t resist chasing after the things I know will always hurt me, and even though all intellect begs me to block his number, I sigh and begin crafting a careful response, not too eager, not too dismissive. No matter how many times he screws me over, I can’t get this feeling anywhere else, can’t find an alternative to this pervasive addiction. He wins me over

EVERY TIME. 57

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Catherine Gross | SELF PORTRAIT | Oil Stick

ps o

np ush in

g forwar d.

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ke e

FIFTY-NINE

Helena Perez-Stark I ha

te h ow th

d to e cloc ks always rewin

t bu 00,

ej tim

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CHERRY

Maye McPhail

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I tell myself that I deserve this: Buying a girl a slushie at half-past midnight and watching her lips as she reads aloud from a dollar-store romance novel with a tragic lack of lesbians. Her voice bends upwards at the end of each sentence, turning fact into uncertainty or, perhaps, interrogation – “His lips pressed against her collarbone?”.

She slides her eyes out from over the spine of the book, and I hold the slushie like a peace offering extended to a petulant toddler. I tell myself that I deserve to describe her grin as coy as she takes the straw between her lips, her breath shortening as the rush of ice and corn syrup wraps around her tongue.

She reaches past me for the door, and I reach towards her, praying our lips meet in the middle. They do not, and I am left forever to wonder whether this was a matter of her own disgust or simply a fault in our timing. My cheeks burn, the night stalls, and I tell myself that I deserve nothing.

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Elinor Sachs | JENNY KISSED ME | Acrylic, Eye Shadow, Eye Liner, Lipstick, and Watercolor

2016- 2017 STAFF Teal “I can’t I have crew” Cohen Editor-In-Chief

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Parker “p diddy” Hawk Staff

Ana “rosie” Rosenthal Faculty Adviser

COLOPHON Many thanks to: Mrs. Rosenthal for all the time and energy you put into helping us make our publication the best it can be. We especially appreciate your patience with our ever-changing minds. Vibrato would not be possible without your help and support and we are forever grateful.

Dr. Cranfill for your literary feedback and for spending so much of your free time sifting through our literature submissions. We are so thankful.

Mrs. Lee, Mr. Murray, and Mrs. Laffitte for your support and facilitation of our creativity.

Melanie Hamil at Impact Graphics and Printing for always being so available and helpful in making our dream for the magazine a reality. Thank you so much for sticking with us through multiple edits.

Vibrato is magazine that exhibits the art, photography, and literature of Hockaday’s student body. Each piece is an original work by the student. Together, our staff members anonymously review each submission and carefully select the pieces to include in our publication, design the spreads, and distribute the magazine. As you journey through our magazine, we hope you appreciate each piece with the same thought that we did.

The text of this issue is set in Cline and the titles are set in Steelfish. Variances in size are used for titles of literary pieces, part, and photograph as well as the names of authors and artists. The main title of the magazine is set in The Next Font. The magazine was designed on Mac computers using Adobe CC 2015. The covers of the two 64-page books are printed on 120# Galerie Art Gloss and the interiors are printed on 100# Galerie Art Gloss Text by Impact Graphics and Printing in Dallas, Texas.

Tasneen Bashir | Watercolor

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