Daedalus 2018

Dӕdalus, the ancient Athenian, created the Minotaur's famed labyrinth and invented wings so that he and his son could escape from King Minos.

Dӕdalus reminds us that we are all creators and all inventors.

Editors-in-Chief Elizabeth Winkler & Grace Zhao Art Editors Sara Ganshaw & Phoebe Jacoby Associate Art Editor Jessie Freedman

Senior Editors Katie Callaghan Mairead Kilgallon Elizabeth Dunn Jaclyn Mulé Web Editor Anisha Laumas

Isabel Allard Caroline Baird Avery Barakett Elysee Barakett Lily Berger* Ainsley Buck Sam Cannon Whitney Carmichael Olivia Citarella Carina Daruwala Rachel Dong* Else Esmond Olivia Falkenrath Madison Farello Emily Fernandez Julia Freedman Emma Gallagher* Sofi Gallegos* Katie George

Staff

Sofia Giannuzzi Marley Houston Maya Hurst Phoebe Jacoby Erin Jaquiery Izzy Kalb Laura Kapp Brooke Lange* Alex LaTrenta Helene Leichter Paige Lipman Cécilia Lux Natalie Majd Anna McCormack* Lulu Meissner Megan Meyerson Sutton Mock* Zoe Morris* Winter Murray

Rachel Ong Elisha Osemobor Sarah Packer* Laurel Pitts Noor Rekhi Emmy Sammons* Caroline Schmitz Sadie Smith Cate Spaulding Annabel Stickel Elena Tan Dyre Vizcarra Susanna Warne Kate Wilson Anna Wright Emma Wu *Junior Editor

Five times a year, Dӕdalus sponsors a Writer-of-the-Month contest. All submissions are sent by email and read anonymously by the entire staff.

In March, editors narrow the selections and begin production, which continues through April with art, layout, and page design. Through May the editors collaborate with our printer through weekly stages until our final assembly, where we read from the issue, show slides of all art, and celebrate!

Faculty Advisor Jeffrey Schwartz

Visual Arts Advisor Sherry Tamalonis

Printer Graphic Management Partners Section entitled "...but the air and the sky are free..." from Edith Hamilton's description of Icarus' escape in Mythology.

Colophon 800 copies of Dӕdalus have been printed on 80 pound Euro Gloss stock with 120 pound Euro Gloss for the cover. The text is set in Palatino, a typeface designed

by Herman Zapf and originally released in 1948.

CONTENTS Cover: Drawing Inside Front: Colored Pencil Section Pages: Photography and Digital Design

Rachel Ong Rachel Ong Elisha Osemobor

Wings Icarus Pen and Ink Drawing How to Suvive Being Greek Digital Design Age of Innocence Reimagined Colored Pencil It's Hard to Break Habits Florida Orange Digital Design Painting Curry Every Sunday Photography Digital Design Things my mother told me Lesson Learned Photography Green Eye, Brown Eye Guacamole Photography Ode to My Scars Painting

Jaclyn MulĂŠ Avery Barakett Lexi Handrinos Jessie Freedman Jane Watson Anna McCormack Laurel Pitts Madison Farello Maria Martins Alina Pannone Priya Saha Noor Rekhi Zoe Morris Christina Maldonado Ainsley Buck Lulu Meissner Sutton Mock Megan Meyerson Katie Callaghan Hailey Stern Helene Leichter Hannah Rieder

8 8 10 11 12 15 16 17 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 28 29 30 31 32 33

Elizabeth Winkler Hannah Rieder Rachel Ong Cate Spaulding

36 37 38 39

Labyrinth I went to therapy Drawing amd Digital Design white noise Digital Design

A Shooting Photography and Digital Design Digital Design Lessons We Teach Our Daughters The Weight of a Hand New Beginnings Photography A Letter From Your Digital Design An Open Letter to Paranoia Photography Collage Barbie Boy Painting belts Lament of Orpheus Graphite Drawing Commonalities (film) Ballet Voices (film) NYC (film) Homecoming (film)

40 Grace Zhao 41 Jane Watson 42 Paulina Swigart 43 Winter Murray 44 Elizabeth Dunn 46 Olivia Falkenrath 49 Zoe Morris 52 Katie George 53 Cate Spaulding 54 Grace Zhao 55 Sutton Mock 56 Sara Ganshaw 56 Clarissa Gillis 58 Elena Tan 59 Haley Anderson 60 Mairead Kilgallon 61 Alina Pannone 62 Haley Anderson 62 Emmy Sammons 63 Caroline Baird Caroline Baird, Sydney 63 Heath, & Thomas VanBelle

Mortals and Immortals A Korean Girl [ ] Digital Design Painting Street Artist Remember to Breathe Colored Pencil Photography amd Sewing Marker DAISY Your Coffee is Ready Drawing and Digital Design Linoblock Girls in Bathrooms at Dances

Maddy Park Phoebe Jacoby Rachel Ong Ainsley Buck Elizabeth Winkler Anna McCormack Laurel Pitts Sara Ganshaw Emmy Sammons Brooke Lange Darby Wise Sutton Mock Laurel Pitts

66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 82 83 84 85

Phillies Collage and Digital Design Sculpture Time Drawing and Digital Design Jeopardy Chocolate Hair Pen and Ink Drawing Don't Come Back Home with the Milk Photography

Elizabeth Dunn Sofi Gallegos Maia van Biesen Rachel Dong Christina Maldonado Ciara Santry Emma Wu Grace Zhao Sofi Gallegos Daltie Mitchell

86 87 88 88 90 91 92 93 94 95

"...but the air and the sky are free..."

What a Time Digital Design The Gazer and the Mountains Paper Cut Collage Digital Design Letters to the Sea Ode to the Fish of the East River Photography Pasta Collage An Exercise in Mindfulness Ahead of the Headlights Graphite Drawing Painting How to Use Chopsticks in a Town Full of Forks 3D Design Arriving at Pompeii Pen and Ink Drawing Becoming a Geologist Ceramics A Lesson in Venetian Gondolas Photography Drawing and Digital Design Inside Back Cover

Sara Poulard Phoebe Jacoby Mairead Kilgallon Isabel Allard Sara Ganshaw Ben Shore Winter Murray Sadie Smith Peter Angelos Cate Spaulding Jane Watson Sofia Gianuzzi Sara Ganshaw Grace Zhao Rachel Ong Tyler Gray Jaclyn MulĂŠ Chris Ramos Elizabeth Winkler Alex Sala Grace Zhao Lily Berger Zoe Hedstrom Daedalus 1986-2018

98 99 100 100 104 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 116 116 118 119 120 120 122 123 124

Icarus

Jaclyn Mulé

I. As a child, my boy danced in the vivid golden shadows he swindled from the noonday sun.

Suspended high above the sea, our tower had a single window.

His imprisonment, I knew, was the cost I paid for power.

II. He was eleven when the birds began to enchant him.

He caught a drifting feather in his hand and kept it beneath his pillow to grace his dreams.

I told him why men do not have wings: they cannot distinguish the dangerous from the great, and always slow their flight too late.

Father, he said, you outwitted the gods once.

You crafted them a maze that stole the souls of the guiltless.

Your brilliance has entrapped me. In atonement, make me wings.

III. Upon his fourteenth birthday, he took my gnarled hands into his own.

Please, Father. I am nearly a man, but I haven’t walked a foreign land; I haven’t heard the sirens sing.

In atonement, make me wings.

Patience, I relented. I will think on it tomorrow.

8

IV. Once awakened, I cannot sleep; my curse (and that of greater minds than mine) is both a nightmare and sublime.

V. When Icarus caught birds as they flew by, I studied the fragile structure of their wings, the hollowed bones and ethereal grace that gift the creatures of the sky.

One evening, we strapped wings to our backs and beat them once, then twice.

We leapt from the tower, gods harnessing the air.

For hours we flew through the raging skies, till night unfurled in the darkened glare.

But in the last hour of light, my boy forgot my words.

He flew into the fires of the sun.

Icarus, my boy, what have you done?

VI. His wings fell swiftly, drifting heedlessly until the light spun them into cinders, lost his cries in the darkening wind.

I watched without hope as his body was swallowed by the sea.

VII. Somewhere, may a crowd of sea nymphs swim upon a white and gleaming body, a pair of wings.

VIII. In my sleep, the sea nymphs dance among the caverns of the sun.

Avery Barakett

Pen and Ink Drawing 9

How to Survive Being Greek (spoken word poem)

Lexi Handrinos

1.

Embrace your full name, Alexandra Nikolaos Handrinos.

Don’t allow someone to call you Alice. Correct them. Correct them with your accent and show them that your name, Alexandra, comes from your grandmother, who practically killed herself working all day long in the village while her two brothers sat back and waited for their food to be brought to the table.

2.

When someone asks you what that “gross food” is, tell them that it’s mageiritsa (sheep intestine soup), the food you grew up with. The food that you ate on a cool summer evening when your skin was raw with gashes and burns from climbing the rough trees to pick and eat your favorite fruits, their juices dribbling down your chin and becoming sticky; the peach pits dried in the hot sun after you spit them onto the burning tar of the driveway.

3.

When you don’t know a word in English, say it in Greek.

Show them that you have not let go of your culture and succumbed to the brainwashing of American jargon.

4.

When someone tells you, “Your English is great, even though it’s your second language,” clench your fists and force a smile. Do not be embarrassed about your slight accent when pronouncing certain English words.

5.

When you go to a friend’s house for dinner, eat the food they give you. You may not be used to it since you grew up with spoonfuls of hot avgolemono soup and kota manestra with fresh dandelions hand-picked off the side of the road by your grandmother’s wrinkled, strong hands.

10

Jessie Freedman

Digital Design

6.

Always greet your relatives with a hug and kiss. Always go from the left cheek to the right cheek. Always offer to help hand out mezedakia and serve your elder family; let the children serve themselves before you go to eat.

7.

Always exit from the door you entered; otherwise, you’ll get a headache from the mati (evil eye) and have to call your yiayia to xematiasi you to get rid of the spirit.

8.

Never forget your roots. Be proud of where you’re from, wear the Hellenic blue and white paint on your face and scream for Olympiakos, your soccer team, until your voice is raw. Jump with excitement when they break the tie and win the game.

9.

Visit Greece. Look out the window when you drive from Chania to Agios Nikolaos and look at the goats prancing on the slopes of the dry mountains. Get ice cream from the minimart and play in the public park with the kids in the neighborhood.

10.

Dance. Dance your heart out. Stomp your feet as if you’re crushing the stereotypes that they spit at you. Yell Opa! and let your Greekness be their weakness.

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Age of Innocence Reimagined

Jane Watson

Teo vroomed his toy car across the shadowed floor as the mid-afternoon sun drifted through the milky windowpane.

He was the first-position driver in the final round of the course, steering effortlessly through dark spots and around dust clumps and over cracks. He even caught air once, completing a full flip before landing without a scratch, wheels turning as fast as before. The title of champion was almost his when he heard the front door open. He shot up at the familiar creak.

“Is that a professional racer I hear?”

“Leksy!” Teo bounded towards him. He hugged his brother, only coming up to the bottom button of his shirt.

Aleksy, just a few days shy of twenty-one, tousled Teo’s short blonde hair.

“How has your day been, kumpel?”

“Eh, good. Mama left early and said she’ll be back after she goes to the market. And I didn’t see Tata, but he probably never came home last night. The bridge needs work all the time.” Teo ran the car up and down his brother’s arm. “I wonder if when the workers all get tired, they huddle under the bridge for a nap. Maybe it makes them feel like adventurers.”

“Adventurers, eh?” Aleksy smiled at Teo’s bright tenyear-old eyes. “Always on the run, nowhere to sleep but under a bridge or in a tree? Yes, I suppose they have to make up exciting scenarios to keep their minds occupied.” Teo always loved giving his world any extra element of excitement. Aleksy walked into the small kitchen and put his bag of books down to make a pot of tea.

“So, robaczku, any news of the War today?” Aleksy always used Polish words of endearment in hopes of keeping Teo’s Polish up. It sounded thick and foreign in his mouth.

He spoke English from the moment he stepped through the front door until the moment he returned. But Polish was still his mother tongue.

“No news. Maybe when Mama gets home she can put on 12

the radio.”

“Doesn’t Dziadek listen to it?”

“He just sleeps all day. He’s upstairs.”

“Ah.” Aleksy placed the kettle on the stove with greater effort than usual. He hated talking about the War, but he needed to keep himself updated. After a few moments of listening to the water heat and the gentle rhythm of each other’s breath, Teo looked at his brother, his voice coming out small and weak.

“Is it true that you might leave soon?” he asked.

“Yes. As soon as I turn 21.”

“But you’re in school! You have to learn,” cried Teo, pointing at the book bag as if Aleksy had never seen it before.

“I’m not really in school, kumpel. You know we can’t afford classes. That’s why you’re here and not there. It’s a miracle Mama had the time to teach me to read when I was young.

I read as much as I can, but that’s not a reason to stay home from war, I’m afraid.”

“But you can’t leave, Leksy. You can’t. I won’t let you,” Teo whined as he clutched his brother’s leg. The teakettle began to shriek. Aleksy fumbled to shut off the heat, his mind turning to the six-pointed star that hung hidden under his shirt; the delicate pendant gave him strength. “There has to be a way for you to get out of it. What if we break your legs?

Or say you don’t speak English and don’t understand any of this?”

Aleksy smiled as his eyes welled silently. “Only certain people get to stay home. I have to serve our country.” Aleksy placed a tea bag in a pot and poured the water in. As soon as the water hit the pouch, it burst.

Teo suddenly became somber. “Poland is our country.

Mama and Tata say never forget that.”

“Yes, but you and I were born here. We owe a lot to this great country – look at how well we get to live.” Alesky gestured to the narrow but well-loved space surrounding them, Teo’s canvas that was painted and repainted each day.

He took a moment to watch the pot as the tea leaves swirled around hectically. “The least I can do is offer myself to protect it,” he said, his voice shaking. Every day he grew closer to 13

convincing himself of this.

“You said certain people. What kinds of people?” Teo asked. “You could be too old to fight – oh wait, they could see you’re young.” He knit his brows. “What if you were a…a… an important doctor? You’d need to help your patients here.”

“They’d have me work. They’d have me leave our family anyway and patch up the wounded. And I’m no doctor, Teo,” Aleksy laughed. “I nearly faint when you get splinters from your races.”

“What about a detective? Like this man?” Teo said, pulling out Aleksy’s copy of A Scandal in Bohemia from his bag.

“This is the one you read to me at night, right? What if you learned how to be a detective? Then you could stay here, because they’d need you to solve all the crimes that will happen when people act crazy because of the War.” Aleksy was growing weary of the subject. He smiled at his brother. “That might work, kumpel. But I doubt it.”

Teo suddenly lit up. “I’ll be right back!” he said as he raced outside.

The air was fresh and the leaves were beginning to turn on the trees that lined their street in Greenpoint. Teo looked around and found what he needed, carefully retrieving a vital tool from the crack in the sidewalk. The chalk was smooth and added weight to his tiny hand. Aleksy didn’t know that Teo had been teaching himself how to read, using the English words in his Grandfather’s Polish-to-English dictionary and occasional newspaper pages and books he could find to piece together the written form of the language. His spelling was not great, but he had to work quickly before the sun set and no one could see what he had written.

A was his first task. The letter always looked like the trees he had seen growing on the mountains in the backgrounds of pictures he told were of his ancestors, or a woman in a cap and coat bracing herself against the chill of winter. In three swift movements, the letter was done. Up, down, across.

The scrape against the smooth cement of the stair gave him invincibility. Next came the vital letters that would bear the brunt of his sentence’s burden, the red lights for any army enlister who tried to knock on their door. He spelled out the 14

word quietly under his breath, racking his small mind for an image of the word he remembered seeing on the dictionary page.

DECETIVE The word felt right to form, as if it were always meant to be there. Teo smiled and held back an excited giggle. He was unaware that just one small switch would add infinite clarity to his message.

The final two words flew out of him. Simple enough, one of five letters and one of four, both spelled close to how they sounded apart from having those sneaky silent e’s that Teo was proud of himself for remembering.

LIVES He liked that the last letter only took him one swift movement. Then, the final four. Fourteen strokes on grey cement.

And on the fourteenth, he caught sight of a pink sliver of light sliding behind the church at the end of the street. Daylight had given its last wave goodbye. He had done it. If anyone passed by, enlister or civilian, they would soon realize that there is was quite impossible for Aleksy to go to war.

HERE based on Helen Levitt’s 1940 gelatin silver print, New York City

Anna McCormack

Colored Pencil 15

It's Hard to Break Habits

Laurel Pitts

Not smoking, or binging, or staying up late, but the smaller things Like when you flick your wrist to check the time, despite the fact you haven’t worn a watch in months, When you turn the lights off in a room as you leave, only to realize that there’s still someone there When you grab a winter coat even though it’s July, When you find yourself turning onto the street where you used to live, stopping at the old house, almost pulling into the driveway before you notice the name on the mailbox is no longer yours and the curtains are different from what you remember Maybe it’s how your hands feel walls in the dark, looking for a doorknob in the wrong place Or try to brush away hair that’s cut shorter now Or turn the thermostat absentmindedly, though it broke two years ago Or automatically hide that spot where a scar, now faded, used to be Most likely, though, it’s when you start to wait for her to walk home with you, and then remember that she’s not coming, When you head to the back door, and ring the doorbell even though you know nobody’s home, When you fish for the key under the doormat before realizing you’ve had one in your bag all along And swing open the door, yelling, I’m home!, knowing after an instant that you’re only talking to yourself Most of all, it’s walking into her room every afternoon and expecting her to be there It’s harder to break habits than I thought Maria Martins 16

Digital Design

Florida Orange

Madison Farello

the smell of citrus and your dollar-store deodorant seeped into the old house through the rip in the screen door as I fell asleep on your chest sunset mixed with purple and red over the pond by my backyard; you took a picture of me on your mom’s old phone – it had a crack in the top right corner and pieces of peel covered my faded blue overalls that sticky juice held our hands together all night like the double-sided tape your dad used to attach your floral wallpaper back to the wall and as those birds sang over the water late at night and early in the morning and as the wind brushed the branches of the trees, we broke open fruit after fruit because my parents were out and we didn’t want a real meal anyways I still taste the oranges – sweet memories mixed with bitter – knowing soon we would empty the bag you brought over that night

17

18

Curry

Priya Saha

He glances at the yellow slip of paper, not pausing long enough to really read the recipe. Every night as a child, my dad watched his mom stir a pot of curry with a wooden spoon; he could make it without her help by the time he turned ten.

Coconut milk: that was the secret. Except, he told me, it wasn’t really a secret. She would brag that her chicken curry was the best in Calcutta, maybe all of India, proudly ambling through dirt streets to offer a bite to anyone who passed – and she would tell them with glee that the secret was coconut milk. But my dad never bragged about the family recipe, never walked around the block with a romertopf full of curry; he was the first in his family to leave India. And when he left the overflowing city of Calcutta, he left all these things behind, but he made sure the folded yellow paper made its way safely into his slim suitcase.

He knows this recipe as well as he knows his own name but still fishes out the wrinkled piece of paper from the drawers of our kitchen. Maybe he wants to make sure he can still read some Bengali, after not muttering a word of it since leaving India. Maybe he wants to admire his grandma’s hurried yet delicate cursive, swooping down the page in meticulous detail. Whatever the reason, he still neatly places the yellow-lined paper on the countertop next to him every time he makes curry.

Alina Pannone

Painting 19

Every Sunday

Noor Rekhi

My coffee is iced. Colder than the peaks of snowy mountains. It is tall and tan. Served in a slender glass. Half of it is milk. Two sugars – always.

With a smile, I sip through a vermillion straw. My slender fingers drum against the wooden table, nails always brightly colored.

And every time, he tells me that my coffee suits me. That I, like the coffee, am sweet and refreshing. And we laugh and we drink as the smell of roasted coffee beans lingers in the air.

His coffee is hot. Burn-your-tongue type of temperature, but he insists that’s how the drink is meant to be consumed.

It’s dark, like the eyes I inherited from him.

His sips are slow and lengthy. He warms his worn, calloused hands around his mug. It’s the same mug every Sunday. Yellow, barely. The paint has faded. The rim is chipped.

My Christmas present to him, five years ago. Back in the days of hot chocolate.

He takes his coffee plain. No milk, no sugar, no cream.

Only a shot of espresso.

And every time, I tell him that it suits him. Like the coffee, he is strong and simple, though in the best way possible. And we laugh and we drink as the smell of roasted coffee beans lingers in the air.

We will talk. In breathy whispers, quiet like mice. Or excited yells, like hyper toddlers. His eyes twinkle like stars, never breaking the connection with mine.

And I know every Sunday I will come back for coffee with my grandfather. And I’ll tell him that his coffee suits him as we breathe the air that smells like roasted coffee beans and tastes like euphoria.

Zoe Morris 20

Photography

21

22

Things my mother told me

Ainsley Buck

If you think you’re in love have a snack first.

You might just be hungry.

Christina Maldonado

Digital Design

23

Lesson Learned

Lulu Meissner

“Fuck, Spewie, how hard did you pregame?”

Jake turned at the sound of Zach Chambers’ voice, cringing at the nickname “Spewie.” He’d had one unfortunate incident involving a trashcan, a long day of preseason, and the merciless Floridian heat – the varsity lacrosse team refused to let it go.

“Seven beers, four or five shots,” he replied instinctively – he would never hear the end of it if he confessed to taking two sips before giving up.

The group stared idly at their phones while waiting for the Uber. Jake scrolled through Snapchat stories, pausing on a particular selfie of a redheaded girl dressed up for the dance.

“Who’s the hottie, Spewie?” Zach asked him.

“Oh, just a girl...” Before he could turn off his phone, it was yanked out of his hand.

“Lily Dunhill? Seriously?” Zach laughed. “Word of advice, Spewie – you’re gonna have to loosen up a little if you’re trying to hit that.”

Jake took a deep breath. Loosen up. It seemed simple enough. The boys piled into the Uber.

When they arrived, the three-story building was brimming with people trying to get through the doorway. It was much narrower than he had expected, and he wondered for a second if it was even possible to fit 400 people inside.

He presented his school ID to the bearded teenager at the desk – he looked him over, stamped his hand, and let him walk down the stairs to the main level.

Jake was here for one reason only: to talk to Lily. He just wanted to say hi, and then he could leave. It had taken him the last six months to work up the courage to talk to her, but he had absolutely no idea how he was going to find her. He wasn’t even sure if he could actually hold a conversation with her even though he felt that he’d gotten to know her so well through her Facebook and Instagram.

24

Cheering upperclassmen surounded them as they made their way down the stairs. Jake scanned the area, but the flashing lights turned everybody’s hair red at some point. He looked behind him towards the stairs thinking that maybe she hadn’t arrived yet – “AH YOU GUYS ARE HERE!” He knew it was her even before he turned around.

Lily pulled her brother into a one-armed hug, then went along hugging all the upperclassmen she could see, teetering slightly as she walked. She flung herself from guy to guy, some hugging her briefly just to entertain her, some putting their hands where they shouldn’t – but only when her brother couldn’t see. Jake felt a compulsive need to protect Lily; she was obviously drunk. He wanted to rescue her from the guys who only saw her for her perfect body, but, of course, he couldn’t. All he could do was watch from the back as his teammates treated her like an object.

“Now’s your chance, dude,” Zach yelled into his ear over the music.

“With Dunhill right there? Yeah, right. I don’t have a death wish.”

“Looks like he’s kind of let it go with the whole ‘don’t touch her’ thing,” Zach pointed out.

Apparently Jake wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

He shrugged dejectedly.

A grueling hour and a half later, Jake sat alone on a counter in the corner of the large room, playing a game of 8 Ball Pool on his phone, and counting down the minutes until he could leave without looking like a loser. From his higher viewpoint, he could see Lily dancing with a group of girls in the center of the crowd. Her smile radiated energy as she laughed at her failed attempt at a popular dance move.

After trying and failing again, she pushed through the crowd to get a bottle of water. She hoisted herself onto the same counter as Jake, apparently texting someone. Jake could feel his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. She was less than a foot away from him. It felt like he was having a mild heart attack; had she noticed? Still on his phone and trying to be subtle, he wiped his hands on his athletic shorts one at 25

a time. Should he talk to her? It seemed stupid to ignore her, but he didn’t want to just randomly initiate a conversation.

She had no idea who he was, so it wasn’t like he could just say hi. He looked down at his phone again and saw her shoes out of the corner of his eye. There were high-tops with hand-drawn doodles all over them in different colored inks.

“I like your shoes,” he blurted, not thinking. The abrupt opener seemed to surprise her, but she took it in stride.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Did you draw them yourself?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Just…uh…something I do in my free time.”

She was much more shy than he had imagined.

“I’m Jake, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” she said, looking like she was confused by his introduction.

“You do?”

“Yeah, you’re on my brother’s team right?” He noticed that she didn’t stutter anymore now that she wasn’t talking about her artwork.

“Um, yeah.”

“I’m Lily.”

“I know.”

“Do you now?”

“Dunhill’s baby sister – he makes sure everyone knows to stay away from you.”

“I know. It really sucks sometimes. He’s so overprotective.”

“Overprotective. That’s one way to put it.”

“He’s a dick, I know.” Jake laughed nervously at her comment. “It’s okay, you’re allowed agree.”

“Don’t tell him, or he’ll shave my eyebrows off.”

“Well, at least it would match your head.” Jake laughed again. It was a tradition that the underclassmen who made it to Varsity got their heads shaved during preseason. She smiled that beautiful smile as she took another sip of water.

“I’m serious though – don’t tell him.”

“Don’t worry, I doubt I’ll remember much tomorrow.”

“You seem okay to me.”

“It’s an act,” she admitted after a small pause, seemingly 26

hesitant to reveal this to him. “No one gets why I don’t want to drink.”

“I know the feeling,” he said, thinking of the pushy upperclassmen at the pregame.

“I'd better get back, but, for the record, I hope you’re not one of those guys that listens to my brother.” With that, she stumbled off the counter and ran back to her friends, screaming and hugging all of them even though she had seen them five minutes ago. Jake had to admit that she pulled off the drunk act pretty damn well. He decided that he would go up to her and talk to her again at some point, even if that meant risking the wrath of Dunhill. He went to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, staring himself down in the mirror.

Man up, he said to himself. This is your moment. You have your window.

Even though he didn’t have much experience, he was almost positive that she was flirting with him. At least he now knew that there was a chance that he wouldn’t get rejected. He dried his face off with his varsity lacrosse T-shirt and steeled himself – he had been waiting months for this.

When he made his way back into the crowd, he couldn’t find Lily anywhere. He walked further in, scanning the entire dance floor, and finally caught a glimpse of her red hair. She was leaning against a wooden pole, enveloped in arms he thought he recognized. Jake paused, trying to figure out if it was actually them.

“OH MY GOD, LILY FINALLY GOT WITH ZACH!” A swarm of girls stood nearby taking photos, shrieking and giggling, and Jake let it sink in. Lily. With Zach. His “friend” that he’d told less than two hours ago that he liked her. Looking around at all of her friends staring at them, Lily caught Jake’s eye. She gave him a sad, almost defeated smile and a small shrug before Zach got her attention back.

He supposed he had been wrong. Maybe she was just like everyone else.

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28

Green Eye, Brown Eye

Megan Meyerson

The first attribute a person notices when meeting me are my eyes. My left is green, and my right is brown. What the person cannot tell by sight is what each eye perceives. My left sees the world in clear and unsullied truth, but my right eye sees so much more.

Yesterday, my teacher dropped her wedding ring into the school’s pond. My class and I started to jump in to retrieve it, but she called us back, saying it was against school policy to enter the water. We protested that the school would make an exception.

She shook her head. “Things like this happen, and there is very little we can do. Go back to the playground and don't worry about it."

The rest of the class retreated from the pond, but I could see the grey emptiness of her words, and the waves of red fear pouring off of her, urging her to leap into the water herself.

I turned and jumped into the pond, floundering around on the murky bottom until I felt cold, hard metal in my hand amid the muck and slime.

My teacher scolded me when I clambered out and gave the ring to her, but I could see the red waves fading to pink, and then shifting to a soft blue of warm relief as she received it.

My green eye saw the smile she gave her hand as she slipped her ring back on her finger with special care, but my brown eye saw the cloud of memories clustering back around the gold band, and the legions of recollections settling peacefully back into place as owner and object were reunited.

Sutton Mock

Photography 29

Guacamole

Katie Callaghan

Outfitted in a checkered blue button-down and white jeans – both stained green by spilled salsa verde and tinged orange with baja chipotle slaw – I serve patrons at the local waterfront taqueria.

Under the supervision of the expeditor and alongside fellow food runners, I dish mounds of guacamole, fold oil and chili peppers into vats of cucumber slices, and maneuver metal platters of cilantro-topped tacos safely around water glasses and onto cramped, teakwood tables.

But when my wrists shakily present dishes under the weight of especially crowded trays of pork tamales and ribeye rice bowls, guests kindly acknowledge the disconcerting clank of unruly plates and remark, “Nice save!”

On a sweltering Friday evening in May, the restaurant crowded with 37 waiting parties of relaxed and chatty friends and families, and Jamie, the expeditor, challenged me to carry my first ever round of three party-sized trays. Sweating from both the humid air and the hanging food heater, I accepted, wiping my balmy hands on a damp rag.

In my right hand, I carried two tuna poke bowls, and in my left, two orders of plantains and a shrimp banh mi rice bowl. “It’s all about skin-to-tray contact,” Jamie said. “Friction, my friend.” I haphazardly rolled up my sleeves, bared my inner forearms, and gently rested the third tray of an assortment of twenty tacos into the crook of my arm. The burn of the metal on my skin propelled me towards table 42. This order defined my success as a professional food runner.

My hands full, I prayed my cobalt blue traction shoes would keep me upright as I navigated the food preparation station repeating the mandatory “Behind” while piloting the food around coworkers.

As I turned into the main dining area, two classmates waiting for takeout greeted me with giggles and hellos. Surprised, I exclaimed, “Hi guys! How are you?" A deep clank 30

reverberated through the restaurant – the tuna poke bowls and I rammed into one of the steel support poles.

The plates jostled, my heart palpitated, and my mouth spread into a toothy grimace. I exhaled the nervous energy with a windstorm of a sigh. I did not drop the food, but merely drew the concerned looks of a few patrons. A family at table 30 clapped.

Although balancing the plates proved to be more difficult than anticipated – meeting unforeseen friends, traversing the crowd of people, colliding with a pole – I delivered the meal to a party of eight, avoiding any taco casualties. The unpredictability of the restaurant trains me to react in the moment; work forces me to adapt to each customer and situation. I am more confident when I chat with strangers, I can remove used plates without disrupting a table’s conversation, and I am eager to explain a dish’s allergens to a customer with a "slight gluten intolerance."

Though the act of delivering food to a table seems monotonous, the invisible tasks of the job occupy me. I strive to clean the prep station with increasing speed at closing time, challenge myself to carry more bowls from the dishwasher to the prep station, and fill the orders of cucumber salad and chipotle slaw before the ticket is stabbed.

I hold myself accountable when I present platters with shaky hands, but there is always the sure promise of another tray of tacos on the heating shelf. Food-running challenges me to work efficiently, but also to appreciate the unforeseeable run-ins with old friends – or support beams.

Hailey Stern

Photography 31

Ode to My Scars (spoken word poem)

Helene Leichter

You always need to be the center of attention.

Coffee-colored circles on my skin – Just as I was growing to love that untainted patch – you appear.

I run to the bathroom before school dances, Frantically smearing a tube of camouflage onto my legs, Attempting to smother you in smooth molding clay – To steal back the spotlight.

But no amount of lotion, concealer, bronzer, can create The perfectly tanned slate I dream of.

But perhaps that is what makes you, you.

You are unapologetic.

You, with your sunken eyes and C-shaped smile, Your tone darkening with age, with wisdom, like beautiful rings on a tree trunk.

A jagged seashell slicing the knee, A gravel-filled wound splitting my palm, A shiny, pink razor slashing my ankle.

You are singular. Like a snowflake or a fingerprint.

You are a time stamp.

Despite what others may tell you, you are sexy, too.

Your dark curvature and twisted spine spells Human across skin which some secretly admire, Rub thumbs across in the dark, Kiss when no one is watching.

You fill craters, Weave between incomplete cells, Sew patches into broken seams.

You are a promise. You are home. inspired by Olivia Gatwood

32

Hannah Rieder

Painting

I went to therapy

Elizabeth Winkler

/ because I wanted to be told I / was / brave / I wanted to sit in a chair and talk / about 2190 nights / why are you eating that? / don’t you want dessert? / six years / biting my tongue / while she bit air / while she screamed / because that is the only true language / of eating disorders / I went to therapy because I wanted to tell someone / about the blood in my mouth / from swallowing words / so she wouldn’t cut herself on their edges / I hid behind tears / behind I’m okay / and do you want to watch tv / pots and pans were my nightmares / plated food stacked up behind my closed eyelids / I dreamt / that she was 7 and I was 5 / that she had just made her first apple crumble / her left front tooth a black rectangle / in her smile / I dreamt that she ate / and went back for seconds / I woke and my big sister had anorexia / therapy wasn’t someone telling me I was brave / and I told them that I had blood / in my mouth / and they said nothing / they nodded / and waited / for me to talk myself out / of words / my tongue weakened as the carpet / reddened / rusted like period underwear

Hannah Rieder 36

Drawing and Digital Design

37

white noise (spoken word poem)

Rachel Ong

the walls yell at me when I stare, their rigid stance releasing as they curl into soft velvet from a lucid dream my hands yell at me, gripping pens with ink that boils in protest I am born with branches for fingers and buttons for nails, grow up smearing my acrylic-painted face until the colors become muddy the air yells at me, with all of its nitrogen and oxygen and carbon dioxide as my body melts into seamless sofa fabric my parents’ footsteps yell at me, the way my father’s accelerate with an unmatchable tempo, his palms unfurling with wisdom offered like blunt watermelon seeds, the way my mother glides through hallways she has reigned over for as long as I can remember, a notebook in hand to remind her of sanity they yell at me with the crescendos in their voices, their words chasing the finish line with flames spilling from their throats somewhere in the distance, I can hear my own yell echoing between the synapses in my brain and the tendons in my bones; it is the overachiever, desperate and slightly eager 38 38

it rings with endless persistence until it has become white noise the silhouette of a hum, and I let it drown into my collisions of thought until my mind goes numb with silence

Cate Spaulding

Digital Design

39 39

A Shooting

Grace Zhao

It is Chinese New Year’s Eve. My house is rolled out like dumpling dough, ready To be crimped and sealed, and my family heaps in Like excess filling. And as we’re crowding into the Living room by the flat screen, something seems to Close in on me from all sides, and pressure builds Around me like hot steam, and the newsreel plunges Me into the rolling boil.

It is a day of red celebration.

We slather red banners for good luck up and down The walls, and somewhere else, red puddles and spills Across hallways and into classrooms; we exchange Red pockets with treats inside, and one day before, silver Bullets dig out red pockets from human flesh; we Peel off our new red clothes. Seventeen were left To be buried in red stains.

It is Thursday February 15, 2018.

I listen to the local news as a large red alert flashes Across the screen, and it hums in the background as My fingers pinch dumpling skins, and my uncle Cracks a funny joke, and my little cousin spills some Water, and the telecaster reads off seventeen names, And another cousin exchanges a glance with me, and "It’s so sad," we think.

It is just another day for me.

When I was little, the kids in first grade would blink Their glossy eyes and state matter-of-factly, “you Know, someone died today”; and I didn’t realize, I Don’t realize, I won’t realize, seventeen names that Mean nothing to me, seventeen lives that I didn’t touch, Seventeen lives that were loved were lost, and I throw Dumplings into the pan.

40 Jane Watson

Photography and Digital Design

42

Lessons We Teach Our Daughters

Winter Murray

I wish there were optimism in the straightness of your back and the lift of your chin. Instead, I see the frustration written into the clench of your jaw, the anger carved into your rigid spine.

You are composed of rage. Your parents call you soft.

Adults tell you this generation is too sensitive.

I don’t want to hear it.

It’s not sensitivity, you want to scream, it’s outrage. You’re sick of being condescended to. There is violence pressed into the thinness of your lips – and they see weakness? But still you stay silent, because here is another lesson. If you take charge you’re bossy. If you speak your mind you’re a bitch.

You want to drape yourself with a mantle of words sharpened to points and aim yourself at anyone who has ever tried to make you sweet.

Some days you are incandescent with fury. You burn and you burn and you bite your lips bloody to keep it all in.

Even on days when you feel like a frayed rope about to drop a sledgehammer onto a pane of glass, the vitriol never falls from the precipice of your tongue. You can count the number of times you’ve snapped on one hand, a rampage of words scalding your tongue until the heat in the pit of your stomach is more of a simmer and less of a wildfire.

You’re too young for this, and it’s a goddamn tragedy that you feel as burned out as you do. Like your mothers before you, you swear to yourself: I’ll teach my daughters better.

Paulina Swigart

Digital Design 43

The Weight of a Hand Too many girls have felt it.

The weight that slithers down your abdomen, past your lungs, filching your breath, clawing the strings of your aorta so that a sharp pang grips your chest.

The weight that settles within the deepest caverns of your stomach polluting the delicate cavity with a toxic slush that makes you want to vomit.

Too many girls have felt the weight of a hot hand grazing their back, a touch that slithers down their spine and tucks beneath the folds of their shirt so swiftly, no one notices.

Fingers migrate lower – you shuffle away.

But it’s dark. You’re in a theater.

And stuck in a grimy red seat.

Sweat, cold and wet trickles from beneath your underarms tickling the sides of your ribs as it slinks down the curve of your waist.

Your body.

His hand.

You want to scream.

You really really really want to scream.

44

Elizabeth Dunn

His hand on your body.

You glance at his face.

It’s looking at the stage.

A smile slightly upturned, watching the circus instructor spin his wand.

You’re pretty sure that’s his wife sitting next to him.

She’s smiling too – her wrinkles carve cottage cheese skin and gray hair spins a frizzy halo.

She’s looking at the stage.

Why would she be looking at his hand?

You press yourself against the armrest, shoving your side into its metal frame praying to stretch beyond his reach.

As your heart collides with your chest, blood rushes to your ears to muffle the performer's cheerful croons.

You inhale as the curtains breathe together for intermission and exhale as their red fabric lulls shut.

The lights emerge and his hand recoils into his lap.

He studies his shoes – scuffed loafers the color of a pair your grandfather owns.

Your father asks what’s wrong, his gaze lingering on your wet eyelids.

The play, you choke. It’s just so sad.

His eyes trace your face, quizzically.

It’s a comedy, Jane. It’s supposed to be funny.

Right. You exhale. Sorry.

45

New Beginnings

Olivia Falkenrath

SCENE 1 Lights up on dorm room. KATE sits on a mattress surrounded by boxes. She looks at her phone, then sighs, looking annoyed. There is a knock on the door and ANNE, KATE's sister, enters.

KATE

Anne!

ANNE Kate!! I’ve missed you so so much! You look so different!

(They hug.)

ANNE I can’t believe I’m helping you move into college. It’s crazy to think you’re so grown up.

KATE Yeah, I guess. Was the trip okay?

ANNE Oh, yeah, it was super easy.

(Awkward silence.)

KATE That’s good. Beat. I’m sorry, but I need to make a phone call.

I’ll be back soon. I’ve started unpacking but all the boxes here are labelled.

ANNE Oh, okay. I’ll start unpacking them. And then I was thinking we could go and have lunch at this cute place a couple blocks away? It got some really good reviews on Yelp.

Yeah, sure.

46

KATE

(Another awkward silence; KATE leaves. ANNE opens a box, then sits down. She looks around the room and sighs. Lights go down.)

SCENE 2 Lights up. KATE and ANNE are opening boxes.

ANNE So, what kind of classes are you taking?

KATE I signed up for some, but I’m not sure they’re going to work out. I’m going to talk to my advisor later and see if I can change them.

ANNE Why do you think they’re not going to work out?

KATE I’m just not interested in them anymore.

Oh. Beat. Are you okay?

ANNE

KATE Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?

ANNE You just seem a bit off. Are you nervous about college? I remember I was super nervous, but I made some really good friends right off the bat.

(As ANNE's speaking, KATE's phone gets a notification and she sighs loudly.)

KATE How would you know if I was “off”? I’m sorry, I have to take this.

Who is it?

ANNE 47

My boyfriend.

Jack?

KATE ANNE

KATE Yea – wait. How do you know about him?

ANNE Mom was telling me about him.

KATE Since when have you been talking to her?

ANNE I called her to check in. She mentioned you were having problems with him and that she’s a little worried.

KATE Oh, right, like she’s worried.

ANNE Yes, she actually is. She was telling me about your fights, and how they can be really crazy.

KATE What does she know about it?

ANNE Listen, if mom is worried I think I should be, too.

KATE You’ve never even met Jack.

Well, what’s he like?

ANNE

KATE He’s fine. He’s just being frustrating right now.

48

ANNE I’m sorry. What’s he doing?

He’s…

KATE

(Rolls eyes.)

Sorry, I really need to call him.

(KATE exits in a hurry. ANNE sighs and looks around. She picks up her phone and calls her mom, but it goes to voicemail

Zoe Morris

Photography

ANNE Hey, Mom, it’s Anne. I’m at the dorm with Kate now. Everything's… Beat. Everything here is really weird. She seems so different. I’m having a hard time connecting with her. She’s always texting or calling her boyfriend and when she’s not she’s barely interacting with me.

(KATE enters quietly with tears in her eyes.)

I think you might be right about him. From what I’ve seen, it seems like their relationship is really toxic and...

49

(KATE makes a noise. ANNE turns around.)

I’ve got to go, but can you please call me when you get this?

(Puts down the phone.)

KATE Is that why you’re really here? To see if I’m safe?

Kate, I -

ANNE

KATE I can’t believe this. I knew something was up when you decided to just come back here and help me move in. Of course it was for Mom. She can’t do anything herself. Jack is a great guy and our relationship is amazing. You have no right to judge him if you haven’t even met him.

ANNE Oh, I’ve heard enough about him.

KATE How many time do you even talk with Mom? She barely talks with anyone anymore.

ANNE It doesn’t have to be frequent. But him sneaking into your house and yelling at you at three in the morning? That’s not healthy, Kate.

KATE That? That was forever ago.

ANNE So what if it was “forever ago?” I’m still worried. Mom says you two are constantly fighting and as your sister I think I should – KATE As your sister? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re barely a sister to me. You left for college right after Dad left, right when Mom was a mess. I had to deal with her, I had to watch her.

50

ANNE I had to go to college. I tried to help. I sent money.

KATE Money didn’t help. You know where the cash went. You left me and I was all alone. And here you are trying to come back here and fix everything. It’s bullshit. And you know who actually did help me when you left? Jack. He was there to help me.

ANNE Did he help you by breaking your window?

KATE Oh, fuck you. You have no fucking right.

(KATE storms off, lights go down.)

(scan QR code to hear the rest!)

51

A Letter From Your Dear Sofía,

Katie George

How is it ?

Not a day goes by where I do not about you.

I hope you are getting the you deserve.

You are so grown up now. You must be .

I know it has been years since I left you in El Paso.

Are you still there? I am worried will you.

Do you remember when we crossed the Rio Grande River to get to ?

I know that since we survived the rapid , you are a strong girl.

I want you to know that I did not to from you.

It was not my .

And you were too young to understand then.

When came, I threw you in the closet.

I am thankful every day they didn’t find you.

But I did it for your own good.

It is safer in . Your life will be better.

I wanted you to have a real .

You can’t get that here.

I am just across the in Ciudad Juarez. is extremely dangerous at the moment.

No one can and no one can .

I can no longer walk without fearing they will .

I don’t want you to worry about me, though.

I am doing everything I can.

Keeping fighting.

You deserve to live . Even if they try to tell you different.

Please if you get a chance. Tell I say hello.

Happy my love. I will one day.

Love,

52

Cate Spaulding

Digital Design 53

An Open Letter to Paranoia (spoken word poem)

Grace Zhao

You're like the creases in my neck; I can’t see you, but I feel like you Are something that I need to hide.

Like the cheek muscle that twitches When I smile or laugh for too long – According to you, good things end.

Or the grime that gathers under my Fingernails that I sheepishly scrape Out with fascination because I know You. I know how you got here, I know Where you came from – yet I’m still Caught up in trying to figure you out.

The crippling bolt in my calf that I Wrenched in too tightly when I was Too careful; I run, you slow me down.

Like the tongs that snipped my heart From my sleeve, like steak for grilling You devoured before I could say no.

Or the crowbar left outside in January That lodges itself in my sternum as my Body shrivels to your frosted filigree.

You Are the shadow that he left behind Cradling me in your hard hands as my Bones spooned around his callouses.

54

And when he sat me in his dollhouse, You said that the one-way windows Were to protect my eyes from the sun.

You Were right. They kept me from seeing His changing face, the searing glint in His eyes as you sat back and watched Me suffocate behind the folds of his Curtains, and suddenly, one day, when The drapes began to smoke, I missed The flicker of the matchstick he took To the roof as he turned the other way.

Sutton Mock

Photography

55

Barbie Boy

Clarissa Gillis

It was at the ice cream shop. A casual occurrence. You know, when you’re at work and a blonde, blue-eyed Barbie boy comes in for ice cream, what’s not to love? Backwards red hat, dazzling grin, tanned skin kissed by the boiling summer sun.

Great, he loves the double dark chocolate ice cream, just like you. Great, he plays lacrosse, just like you. Great, he’s here on the island for summer vacation, just like you.

It’s nice conversation, he lingers a little… he seems familiar you think, but no, how could you know him? He must be just another boy you are never going to see again, just another boy stopping in to escape that sweltering suffocating air, just another boy…right?

No. It all comes rushing back. Just for an instant. Just enough to remember the hitting, the screeching, the crying. His fists pounding your face. Then you snap out of it. You remember that this happened more than five years ago, that you cannot keep relating every boy back to your ex-boyfriend.

Right?

You two are the only ones here. It’s midday so usually lines are out the door, loud kids coming in with sand scratching their delicate hands, wet from that beautiful blue ocean.

Usually. Today, however, is strangely calm. As he’s leaving, he says, “Hey, my buddy and I are throwing a party tonight. Tons of people. You should come.”

You sense something strange in his eyes. Something about his face. Something about the way he looks in this one second that makes you hesitate.

Stop, Monica. Stop.

This is where you should have realized, this is where you should have known. But no. You didn’t. You are naïve, you trust people, you just want to have fun.

You smile, tilt your head, eyes gleam. “I’ll be there.”

It was fine, you were fine. You are going to that party. So what? You are naïve, you trust people, you just want to have fun.

Now it’s 8 PM. Chloe is here with you, obviously. Best friends don’t go places alone. You park. You wait. It’s a dark house – brown, brick. It’s atop of this looming hill overlooking 56

that beautiful blue ocean. Now it was not blue, but gloomy and eerie, as if it were about to swallow you up into its deep dark waters. The wind whips through the air, rustling the leaves on the trees and blowing your hair into tangled knots, which struggle to become free.

If you listen closely you can hear it. Just listen. Hear that?

Exactly.

This is where you should have realized. This is where you should have known.

Now you are applying your pink shimmer gloss, now you are fixing your hair, now you are checking your phone.

Now you are slamming the car door, now you are walking up that looming hill, now you are at the doorstep. Knock, knock.

Chloe says to you: “Mon, this is sketch…there are no cars here, and it’s dark inside.”

“Oh, come on Chlo. Stop being dramatic, there’s a light on right there.”

But she’s right. The few seconds you stand there your thighs start to shake, your fingers go numb, your stomach churns with butterflies. An owl breaks the silent night, hooting in the distance.

Chloe starts to turn around, she says there is something about this place that gives her the creeps.

“We should never have come here,” she says.

She says, “Why on earth would you accept an invitation to a party from some random boy you don’t even know?”

“But you do know me.” A silhouette suddenly appears on the pathway. Breathing. Creaking of the door.

You say: “Oh my God. It’s you.”

He gives you a devilish smile; a villain right out of a comic book. The dazzling grin, those beautiful blue eyes. He grabs you from behind. All you see now is black. The feeling of sharp ice. Stinging you. Needles are going through your skin. You hear his breath, drowning out all other noises but the owl, that owl that is still hooting in the distance.

Chloe starts to run. She knows what’s going on. She knows who he is. She knows.

The only thing you can think of right now, the only thing you deeply regret, is how you should have known.

Sara Ganshaw

Collage 57

Elena Tan

58

Painting

belts

Haley Anderson

he never wears belts he’d rather just let his pants fit a little loose they’d sag and droop but every time he would choose to have a gap between his back and his slacks to constantly pull up his jeans by the loops to avoid wearing a thick ribbon of leather with little notches and a twisted history he never had a good relationship with belts they only ever brought him misery he’d either fasten them too tight or flinch when they’d swing at him he never liked the red marks they left that he only saw when he undressed to put his body to rest he never liked the tears he wept he never liked the tears he wept

59

The Lament of Orpheus

Mairead Kilgallon

i. to eurydice, before i’m not saying i’m mad / well maybe i am / i mean not at you / but kind of at you / at the gods? / it’s their fault your fault my fault / the viper’s fault / the viper or the fangs? / intent or nature? / i was writing a song for you for us / did you know? / how could you have known i’m being stupid / you still make me nervous / i wish i could sing to you to myself / that damn music is the life of me / the death of you of me / how can there be music without you? / i remember my lyre string was fraying / and i was so worried it would snap / hurt me hurt you and then there would be silence / i thought i can’t live like that / you can’t die like that / but you did and i have to / and what do i do now? /

ii. to hades my lord / i beg of you–– / how did i get in? / i hardly think that’s important now where is she? / she must’ve checked in / is that the term? / her ankle killed her a viper’s fangs dripping with millennia of evolution / for its survival but not hers / i sang my way in, if you must know / i turned the rock to flowers with a song her song / a gate opened i stepped through and now i am here / i am here / my lord / forgive me but i am here! eurydice! / where is she what must i do i can sing for you i can turn your palace to flowers if the lady persephone would like / my lord i am begging you i will turn the whole world into flowers /

Alina Pannone 60

Graphite Drawing

iii. to the ghost, following has this place absorbed you your beauty your smile your you? / will you still sway when i sing will your feet dance in the dirt on the stones? / or is your foot swollen purple and gray with poison are you the color of death? / why can i not turn don’t and touch your hands to feel that they are yours they are mine / turn no and press my head to your chest and sing along with your heartbeat did i hear it just then? / or just my footsteps or your footsteps? / are your feet touching the ground i must can’t see / what if you are not you is a ghost of you better than none of you i need to see you hold you feel you i can’t hear you where did you go / i see your eyes /

iv. to eurydice, after but i never touched you you never touched me / the string was cut my life your life snapped / the fates grinned and went home for the day / my strings are gone / i’m not mad anymore / not at you at me / can i ever find you again i look and i look / and like the space between the stars of the lyre in the sky / i see you close / i reach do you reach back / and yet you are days and months and years away from me / and i don’t think you could even hear me sing to you / but i will sing / 61

Commonalities Haley Anderson

Ballet Voices

Emmy Sammons

62

NYC

Caroline Baird

Homecoming

Caroline Baird, Sydney Heath, & Thomas VanBelle

63

A Korean Girl [

] Maddy Park

This is how you get up in the morning and use your makeup to hide the fact that you only got three hours of sleep; this is how you work hard – you aren’t naturally smart, but no one has to know that; this is how you look in the mirror and think about your flat nose and monolids; What if you got plastic surgery? Would you be happy?; this is how you tuck in your pristine, white button-down into your skirt that’s neither too long nor short – you wouldn’t want to be called a prude or sl*t; this is how you eat your little portion of rice and soup; this is how you hide that you want to eat more; this is how you hide that you are hungry; this is how you maintain your XS body, your delicate frame; this is how you become beautiful; this is how you go to school with a smile on your face, even if you feel like exploding into a puddle of tears; though you know all the answers, rarely raise your hand; everyone hates a know-it-all; this is how you make friends; this is how you are liked; from Monday through Saturday, you have tutors after school for each subject; this is how you succeed; this is how you get into college; this is how to make your parents proud; You got home from school and tutoring at 7:30, practiced the oboe for two hours, stayed up late finishing your schoolwork, and yet, you only got a B+ in that math exam?; it doesn’t matter that you get home after dinner every day or that you get As in all your other subjects; this is how you anticipate the inevitable beating of your father’s belt across your backside; this is how you apologize for wasting your parents’ money; this is how you promise that you’ll do better; this is how you treat your backside with cream; this is how you put cold spoons over your eyes to prevent them from swelling; this is how you use makeup to hide your red nose and those hideous bags under your eyes; you aren’t perfect, but no one has to know that either. fiction inspired by "Girl" by Jamaica Kincaid

66

Phoebe Jacoby

Digital Design

67

Street Artist

Ainsley Buck

My father loves graffiti He calls it street art, and when he says it, His eyes dance like he is 5 years old His favorite is the Banksy on the corner Of Van Brunt and King Street A red, heart-shaped balloon With Band-Aids pasted all over it My father, a man saturated with life, Thinks he’s an investor, Stagnant in a world of black and white But I know he’s a street artist He wears his heart on his sleeve And paints the world with it When my father is sad, I reach for stability But the sky crumbles in my hands Cracking under his gray, gray paint He’s almost never angry, but when he is It smears the sidewalks ruddy with shame, His red ink seeping into my feet, Much harder to wash off than I wish it were But when my father laughs, And hugs and smiles, Sunshine spills infinitely out of his pockets Painting everything yellow until it glows

Rachel Ong

Painting 69

Remember to Breathe

Elizabeth Winkler

I balanced the salt and pepper shakers in my left hand while the right side of my body curled around the edge of my plate. Barely breathing for fear of dropping something, or everything, I pulled open the door to the screened-in porch and stepped into the heavy New England evening. The salt, pepper, and my plate all took their places at the table as I waited for the tension at my core to dissipate.

Perhaps sitting down would help.

I placed my napkin on my lap and tried to breathe around the knot that seemed to have developed in my left lung. Charlotte – my older sister – and our parents took their seats as I focused on the rhythm of inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, trying to figure out why there didn’t seem to be as much oxygen as there usually was. Probably just the humidity. My father mentioned an article he had read, my mother replied, then my sister chimed in, and I inhaled as deeply as I could. The breath shuddered against the knot in my lung.

I may have made some comment about the article, but my brain didn’t process it and the words I’d been meaning to say for a year started to inch out from under my tongue: Mommy, Daddy, Charlotte knows this, but…

I watched myself from just above my right ear, not tasting the steak or the corn or the salad, running through different possible phrasings, ways of cushioning, qualifying, explaining.

The jumble of words had fully uncurled and was sitting atop my tongue, waiting for a pause in the conversation. I felt it there, hovering, and my tongue began pulsing in rhythm to the fear that a silence would come, that the words would tumble out before I’d found the right order, the optimal phrasing, the smoothest delivery.

I’ve already told Charlotte, but…

I know you won’t be upset, but I wanted to tell you…

You might have already guessed that I… The first made it sound as though I didn’t trust them.

The second was a lie and the third just an easy opener; how 70 Anna McCormack

Colored Pencil

could they have guessed?

Somehow, as I edited the 32nd version of the sentence, the realism of the situation drifted away: this was a movie I was watching, nothing more. And just as I had lost agency entirely, everyone took a bite at the same time.

Everyone, that is, but me.

The lull in conversation fell into silence’s greedy, waiting arms and reached for the words now pushing my lips apart; I realized that this was the moment in the movie for the protagonist to throw caution to the winds. And I dug up just enough courage for the words to drip from my lips, letter by letter, and drop to the table through the moisture in the air: I’m pansexual.

For a moment, there was silence.

My father looked at my mother and she looked back at him in the (perhaps clichéd) language of people who love each other; he turned to me and spoke for both of them, saying that this didn’t change anything and obviously they love me and as long as I’m happy they’re happy. I took a breath and realized that the knot in my lung had somehow disappeared, though there was a new pressure against my ribcage where my heart seemed to be expanding. I smiled so widely that it hurt and asked my parents if they had any questions. After another wordless conversation they decided that no, they didn’t have any at that moment, but they’d let me know if they ever did.

I nodded a rainbow nod and didn’t think I’d ever stop smiling as I breathed in, breathed out, and brought back that conversation I had missed, the one about the article my father had read.

71

Laurel Pitts Sara Ganshaw

Photography and Sewing Marker

73

DAISY

Emmy Sammons

FADE IN EXT ESTABLISHING SHOT BOATHOUSE – MORNING SCENE 1.

INT. BOATHOUSE LOCKER ROOM – EARLY MORNING The room is early morning dark. Sounds of shuffling clothing in a bag are heard, pan from a picture of a crew team on the wall to the blistered hands of high-school-age boy, HENRY. He stuffs a navy sweatshirt in his bag and checks the time on his phone: it reads 5:15 AM. CUT TO: DOCK Henry walks up to another high-school-age boy. (Inaudible mumbled greeting.) The boys put the boat in the water, shot from underneath the boat dropping into the water.

CUT TO: WATER Drifting shots of the two boys rowing. Their breath is visible in the morning cold. All that is heard is their breathing and the splash of the oars in the water.

2. INT. HENRY’S ROOM – 3 HOURS LATER Henry sitting at his desk, doing ACT prepwork, and plugging into his calculator. An alarm on his phone goes off, he checks it. It reads 9:45 AM. He rises. Camera follows him down the stairs. He passes two rooms along the way. The first is his youngest sister’s room. Classical music is playing as a girl (JULIA) is seen doing ballet stretches.

Hey, Juls.

HENRY

JULIA Morning, Henry. How was practice?

HENRY Good.

Camera continues past the second door. It is closed and the 74

lights are off. Henry opens the door.

Syd, get up.

HENRY

SYDNEY Shut up.

(SYDNEY rolls over in bed and goes back to sleep.)

HENRY Good morning to you, too.

(She makes a noise.)

SCENE 3. INT. KITCHEN Henry pulling bread out of a beeping toaster. His MOM appears around the corner.

MOM Henry, what are you still doing here? You have Brookdale in 5 minutes!

HENRY Ah, shoot. Can I please skip today?

MOM Henry this is important for college! Just go for two hours and then come home and get some work done.

HENRY (Indistinguishable mumbling.) ...I hate this...just wheeling around old people...

It’s the second week of summer...This sucks SCENE 4. INT. BROOKDALE Henry entering an Old People’s home. The sign above the entrance reads “BROOKDALE.” Shot follows over Henry's shoulder as automatic doors open.

Older people in wheelchairs are being wheeled around the room out of focus. Henry checks in at the receptionist’s desk.

75

RECEPTIONIST Ms. Adelaide Waters needs to be wheeled to her physical therapy...

(She checks her watch.) ...right now.

(She hands him a clipboard.)

Thank you.

(She returns to her activity on her computer.)

Henry makes his way to his assigned room.

CUT TO:

Rolling shot across the various name plates and pictures of the corresponding Brookdale residents. One man’s name plate reads “Simon Peterson.” His picture is of Matt Damon.

Camera stops at ADELAIDE WATERS. There is a washed photo of an old woman, hair pulled back with a clip. Her skin is pale, but her smile reads as elegantly aged beauty.

Ms. Waters?

HENRY

Adelaide is sitting in a wheelchair facing a small television.

Her back is to Henry. She turns her head slightly. Her voice is quiet but articulate.

ADELAIDE Oh. Is is time for my physical therapy?

Yes, it’s 10:15.

HENRY

ADELAIDE Already? I could have sworn my clock just read 6 AM. My, how the time goes. And my flowers are a bit sad-looking now...Let’s go.

Her back is still towards Henry, but a small smile is seen on her profile.

Mhm. 76

HENRY

He makes his way toward Adelaide’s wheelchair and wheels her out of the room, glancing at the flowers as he closes the door behind him.

SCENE 5. INT. BROOKDALE Henry is back at the receptionists desk. He hands back the clipboard and walks out of the automatic doors.

SCENE 6. INT. BROOKDALE EXT BOATHOUSE – SEVERAL DAYS LATER Montage of Henry volunteering at Brookdale, rowing, and completing other work. As the montage continues, more of Henry's time is spent with Adelaide. The montage occasionally pauses for a more substantive scene.

INT. ADELAIDE’S ROOM Henry opens Adelaide's door, one hand behind his back.

HENRY Mrs. Waters? I noticed your flowers had died, so I brought you some new ones. I meant to get something prettier, but this was all they had.

(He moves his hand from behind his back to reveal plain white daisies.)

ADELAIDE (Her face lights up and she smiles.)

I love them.

(Her eyes drift off into the distance: pensive.)

Montage continues. Each time Henry cares for Adelaide, he refreshes her daisies.

SCENE 7. EXT . BROOKDALE PARKING LOT Henry is sitting on the cement rectangle at the end of a parking spot; Adelaide is in her wheel chair.

HENRY I had a good practice today. We were on the water until seven. (pause) Our coxswain, MATT – Do you know what a coxswain is, Adelaide?

77

Mhm, Devin.

ADELAIDE

HENRY (He speaks louder.)

No, his name is Matt. We were on the water until seven.

(He laughs.)

You probably can’t really hear me.

There is silence, and Adelaide smiles. The montage resumes.

INT. ADELAIDE’S ROOM Henry's enters, carrying a small trash bag and a tray.

HENRY I brought you something.

(He holds up the plastic bag.)

We were on the water this morning, so I collected some sand by the docks.

ADELAIDE Rowing.

(She smiles.)

HENRY (He smiles out of pity.)

Yes, as always.

Devin?

ADELAIDE

HENRY No, remember our coxswain’s name is Matt.

Adelaide smiles. Henry dumps the sand from the garbage bag onto the tray, and sets it at the foot of her wheelchair. He places her feet in the sand and she chuckles.

Freshly cut daisies are seen on the dresser behind her.

The montage resumes.

78

EXT. PARKING LOT Henry and Adelaide sit in the same location as before.

HENRY This is nice. (pause) I’m submitting my college applications now. (pause) It’s weird, to think how much a school could shape what I do in life. (pause) And I don’t even know if I should row in college.

Harvard.

ADELAIDE

HENRY (He chuckles.)

Wouldn’t that be nice?

There is more silence between the two, only the sound of cars in the parking lot underscores the scene. Henry wheels Adelaide back inside.

FADE TO BLACK FADE IN SCENE 8. INT. LIBRARY – FOUR YEARS LATER Henry sits in a library studying. The shots of him studying now mirror the studying shots from SCENE 2. His phone rings, like the buzzing alarm in SCENE 3. An unknown number appears on the screen; Henry picks up his phone and leaves the library to take the call.

CUT TO: Outside the library, Henry is already talking on the phone.

Only his side of the conversation is heard. His eyes are cast downward.

HENRY Yes...Yes...I understand...I did...Okay...Thank you...Yes...

79

9. FINAL SCENE. EXT CEMETERY A pile of dirt sits before a makeshift grave marker. A woman, mid-thirties, MARIE, is already standing at the foot of the hole in since.

ENTER HENRY. He is dressed in khakis, a button down, and a half-zipped navy sweatshirt.

HENRY Excuse me? Hi, I’m here for Mrs. Waters...

MARIE It’s nice of you to come. You were...one of Adelaide’s caretakers?

HENRY Uh, yeah, sort of. I volunteered at Brookdale during my high school summers. I don’t anymore, I’m a senior in college. (pause) How are you and – (He motions to the hole in the ground) MARIE Oh, yes. Now let’s see. I’m Mrs. Waters’ grandkids’ second cousin.

Hm.

HENRY

MARIE Yeah, she doesn’t really have anyone left. But I know she appreciated you being there for her at Brookdale.

(There is an awkward pause.)

I believe her memory started to go over ten years ago, so I assume conversations were pretty shallow.

HENRY Yeah, I mostly just talked about rowing.

(He laughs.)

That’s actually all I really talked about.

80

MARIE (Her face lights up.)

Well, I bet she had a bit to say. Her sister was actually the coxswain for the Harvard Boys Team.

(Henry pauses; he makes a noise and looks at Marie.)

She didn’t tell you?

(Henry shakes his head.)

Wow. Her little sister was Devin Mahony, the first woman to ever cox for the Harvard Boys team. She was damn proud of her. (Pause) I can’t believe that never came up.

HENRY (He scrunches his nose and a half smile appears on his face. He is dumbfounded.)

Huh. Yeah.

He puts the pieces together of the fragmented story told by Adelaide's minimal contributions to their coversations.

MARIE I wish I could stay longer...It was nice meeting you.

MARIE EXITS. Henry is left standing at the foot of the hole by himself. A tear drips from his eye, but he smiles, reaches to his back pocket, and pulls out a small bundle of plain white daisies.

He places them on the headstone.

HENRY EXITS. FADE TO BLACK. THE END

81

Your Coffee is Ready

Brooke Lange

We are standing in the coffee shop Elbows bumping gingerly Against fellow, not-yet-caffeinated, Soon-to-be-late-to-work customers.

I don’t understand why there are fifteen strawberry Pink fusion teas and mocha iced lattés shooting out of the barista’s hands Like divine caffeinated projectiles when I’ve been Waiting twenty minutes for one Simple black coffee.

Children screaming about some problem with their Cinnamon raisin bagels and the equally annoying cluck of What appears to be an exasperated yoga teacher only Increase my irritation.

My mother asks the visibly anxious Barista why our coffees aren’t made As if we are somehow more Important than the fifteen other fatigued Customers waiting for their Morning fix.

Brooke, tell the man what you ordered Louder so he can hear.

She repeats my words at an unnecessary volume.

He can hear, I comment under my breath.

This first sarcasm is noticed but Ignored. Now I give her a look Long and withering as all teenage girls are trained to Do once they reach the age of condescension.

This same look is not only returned but accompanied With a scoff.

82

Suddenly the coffee shop quiets as the children Exit through the jingling doorway Taking with them my irrational temper.

But it is too late.

You’re not coming here again.

Do you understand?

So disrespectful.

Quick footsteps out the door.

The harried barista wipes sweat from his brow.

Your coffee is ready.

Darby Wise

Drawing and Digital Design

Sutton Mock 84

Linoblock

Girls in Bathrooms at Dances

Laurel Pitts

The girl in the black dress loves the boy so much it makes her nauseous. She says she is going to puke if she spends another minute in the gym, and we can’t go outside, so she sits on the ground of the bathroom. The tiles are wet, and they say there are mice, but she is sitting anyway, with her legs spread out and her heels falling off like a little kid. The girl in the black dress tells me that she just wants it to end, that she can’t believe she’s spent five years of her life on the boy who doesn’t care about her.

And I guess I shouldn’t hate the boy. When I tell my mother, she says I shouldn’t hate the boy.

But I hate the boy.

Girls come into the bathroom and leave while I apply lip gloss and take it off again to look like I haven’t been here for half an hour and keep my eyes away from bugs in the corner.

The girl in the black dress tells me that the boy looks pained every time he speaks to her, so I tell her that in science class you can tell from the way he talks that he thinks he’s real hot shit.

I hate the way boys act at dances, because they don’t know how to flirt, so they just tease girls. In the gym, I want to yell at the boy, who looks like an idiot crouching, making fun of some other girl in the condescending way boys do when they think they’re young men when they’re just children, anyway.

I want to tell him that he forgets that just last year he was shorter than those girls, and his voice is still changing, and he is not hot shit like he thinks, and there is a girl who loved him when he was scrawny and insecure who is now crying in some wet corner with her cheek pressed up against the grimy tiles and a fistful of crumpled paper towels, and it’s because of him.

My mother says that I shouldn’t hate the boy, but has she seen the girl in the black dress kneeling over the toilet?

Has she heard the girl gasping for air and telling me she can’t believe she’s wasted five years of her life?

85

Phillies

Elizabeth Dunn

There is an eerie weightlessness about A meter and a half – Enough distance that an Outstretched arm would Still return empty.

Accompanied by unoccupied stools, Glossy and slick wood, Excused from the burden of men.

What is there to say for unturned air?

Breath that hasn’t been recycled?

They say if you keep your back hunched and hat tipped low, the bartender won’t press you with a cigar.

It’s only five cents.

Your only interest is Your empty glass.

The rim wet by the backside Of your teeth.

The bottom long dry.

If you could, would you ask Red with the blue eyes to slide Her glass down and shimmy up and follow it?

She and Mr. Vanderbilt over there Look terribly happy.

Their shoulders are parted Her lips are pursed He drags a cigarette, Exuding soft rings of smoke Throughout the bar.

86

You tip your hat further Below your eyebrows Perusing the worn felt with Your index finger.

The trim is beginning to fray.

The absence of liquor warms you.

You bring the empty cup to your mouth and savor it. after Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks

Sofi Gallegos

Collage and Digital Design

Time

Rachel Dong

On Saturday morning, Lin stepped absent-mindedly to a familiar location. The yellow looped “M” would have been jarring in his quiet hometown of Xi An, but it was mundane to him after living in Manhattan for years. He knew New York as a city constantly filled with lights, noise, and vivid billboards at every corner, the models’ faces white as pearls, their eyes glittering like simulated diamonds.

He shuffled along, one of many in a stream of people dressed in drab, muted colors, crowding into the fast-food restaurant. A black – no, African-American – teenaged boy stood at the register. Barely looking up, he said: – What will it be, sir?

– Two Egg McMuffins, one medium coffee.

Lin deliberately smoothed his words, concealing his pervasive accent. All he needed was to be like any other American person on the street. He slid his credit card through the slot. It did not register.

– Again please, sir.

As he ran his card through the machine, he examined the boy behind the counter. His skin was as black as charcoal, but his eyes were a milky white. They stood out harshly against his dark skin. Again, Lin dismissed those thoughts immediately. In this country, they were impolite. The register beeped, and this time his card was authorized.

– Thank you very much, he said hurriedly, his words distorted and unclear. The boy did not react; he had already moved on to the next customer. Lin’s cheeks flushed, and he waited in the queue for his order. Looking around, nearly every table was taken by rowdy families and their children.

His heart ached for his own family back home in China.

He wondered what they were doing right now, on the other side of the world in a different time, a different culture.

He imagined scenes of swaying paper lanterns, rice wine, and hot dumplings, laughter like music in the background.

– Order number 667.

88

Lin picked up his brown bag in a punctual manner and made his way toward the window counter, where he sat. As he dutifully ate his meal, his mind drifting to more pragmatic matters – tax returns, the money to send to his family – he came back to reality. His parents were old, and his childhood home stood abandoned in favor of a retirement home. Lin sighed. It would take a miracle for him to take time off from work to return home to visit, not to mention the long process to obtain a visa to do so.

But even if he could, he knew that the familiar flavors of lightly-sweet chocolate bars and milk ice-cream savored by his childhood taste buds would be disappointingly pale in comparison to Hershey’s and Haagen-Dazs. His tired feet, which used to walk in wooden slippers and shoes of cloth, would now opt for Nike or New Balance. The children would be too busy studying English to skip rope or sing Chinese nursery rhymes like they used to. Time, it seemed, was determined to make him suffer. Those fragile, vivid memories would only be crushed by the solemn image that was the truth.

Outside, women in pastel coats clacked their heels up and down the streets. Men in long trench coats strolled in an effortlessly businesslike manner. Some walked in twos and threes; though he could not hear their conversations, he could imagine the crisp lilts of their voices and their clever prose. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to be one of them.

People chattered in faint conversation all around him like radio frequencies; he chose not to tune in to any voice too closely, their words washing over him indistinctly. Lin let his eyes fall shut. In the infinite darkness, he could almost imagine these murmurs as those of his family, speaking lightly as they sat around the radio, listening to some casual drama program as they ate crunchy sesame-seed cakes. When he opened his eyes, the scene was gone.

Maia van Biesen

Sculpture 89

Jeopardy

Ciara Santry

Deirdre Murphy walks into the house at 6:52 PM. She marches over to the stove, plops the cocoa powder and milk onto the counter, and turns on the burner to make hot chocolate.

As soon as she pours herself a cup, she paces back and forth.

At 7 PM, we switch to ABC. “And now, here is the host of Jeopardy! Alex Trebek!”

“Named for the famous brothers & a WWI-era pilot, Wright-Patterson AFB is just east of this Ohio aviation city,” Alex says.

“Dayton?” our mom, Áine, guesses.

“Did you hear about Tommy Short? Don’t think he’s getting any better,” Deirdre says.

“What is Kitty Hawk?” says Emily, a contestant on the show. Beep beep beep.

“What is Columbus?” Brandy, another contestant, says.

Beep beep beep.

“What is Akron?” Ryan, the returning champion, says.

Beep beep beep.

“He’s got pneumonia on top of the cancer, and he’s always out of it, Maura was telling me. I don’t think he’ll be around much longer,” Deirdre says.

“Sorry, no, the correct answer was Dayton,” Alex says.

“Yes! I got it!” Áine says. “I think he’ll pull through. He usually does.”

“You get 50 minutes to complete this section of the Scholastic Aptitude Test, kids,” Alex says.

“Ah, damn, I don’t know this one,” Áine says.

“I dunno, Sinéad was in with him and he was delusional.

He didn’t remember her boyfriend’s name, for God’s sake.”

“What is the written?” Ryan responds. Beep beep beep.

“What is the essay?” Brandy says.

“I should’ve gotten that,” Áine says. “Tommy’ll be fine.

He’s come through before. I'm sure he'll be okay.”

This was our 30th Jeopardy! night "and our new champion is Emily!"

Christina Maldonado

91 Drawing and Digital Design

Chocolate Hair

Emma Wu

Cocking her head, Ellie looks at me.

Then my mother.

Then me again.

Were you adopted?

No. But you don’t look like her.

I know.

So… (She expects me to give her an answer.)

My dad’s Chinese. His hair is black and his eyes are brown.

So that’s why your hair is black.

Yeah.

It’s chocolate.

Huh? The color. It’s chocolate.

Oh.

Grace Zhao 92

Pen and Ink Drawing

93

Don't Come Back Home with the Milk (spoken word poem)

Sofi Gallegos

I pray it’s not too late when you realize, you had us.

Flesh and bones, superglued together and at the same time, an angel, fallen from its picture frame.

Cheers to the good intentions of my 5-year-old self piecing me back together over and over again: every time you left for milk and didn’t come home.

One day she’ll grow up and the next day, maybe she’ll stop: hoping to see you and a grocery bag filled with excuses.

She’ll wrap her hands around us, hugging the edges of the newly vacant spaces, but she won’t look for the pieces of me, you so generously kept.

She’ll do it for herself, possibly for me, but surely not for you: the man she once knew.

Now that she’s grown up there’s only one thing I can say: don’t come back home with the milk.

94

Daltie Mitchell

Photography

95

What a Time (spoken word poem)

Sara Poulard

What a time to feel the warm embrace of an overdue hug to eat jaw-clenching mangos plucked straight from a tree, all while serving the well-respected elders, the founders of our clan.

What a time to play cards with cousins until grandma motions to the bed and the pillow that awaits me to feed it with my stories.

What a time to learn lyrics to a song in a language I long to know more than my native tongue, to sing in a combination of dialects. What a time to wrap arms around a helmeted stranger who will take me on his motorbike, the trickle of smoke that maps out our adventures.

What a time to make new friends, keep the old and honor the dead.

To dance to the sounds made by the hard slap upon the soft texture of goatskin.

What a time to get bitten by tiny weightless vampires that leave me with a mark, a reminder of the place I love.

Oh, what a time.

Phoebe Jacoby 98

Digital Design

99

Gazer and the Mountains

Mairead Kilgallon

Once upon a time, there was a girl born at the bottom of the sea. Her mother was all the life that thrived in the ocean, and her father was the water that sustained it.

Over time the girl was given many names: Pele, Gaea, Geb. But when she was young, she was known only as Gazer, for her eyes were always fixed upward, searching out the light and warmth that existed far above her. The sea’s surface was her sky, as unattainable to her as the clouds to a flower rooted in the earth.

Not that there was any earth in which things could even take root. The girl was born very soon after the beginning, when the world was new, and there was only her father’s ocean to cover everything. The firestorm in the sky – the real sky – was still poisonous then, and kept Gazer’s mother from leaving the sea floor for many thousands of years.

After millennia spent exploring every dark inch of her world, constantly surrounded by her slow-moving mother and imposing father, Gazer grew frustrated. Though she had found wonders beyond belief on her travels – delicate empires of coral in a spectrum of jewel tones, forests of flowing vines tangled in each other like an enormous embrace, mountain ranges with peaks that had taken her months to reach – she could not stop her eyes from drifting up, up, always searching for the light she yearned to feel dance on her skin.

More time passed. The watery planet rebelled against the sky fire, layering itself with protection against its constant onslaught. The fire then became something of a partner to Gazer’s mother, offering life beyond the confines of the sea. But then, there was nothing but the sea, so the fire waited in the sky for something to which it could give life.

Gazer did not notice the change at first. She spent her time in the usual way: explore the ocean floor some more, talk with her scale-clad siblings with their tails like wings, then lie back and stare up for as long as she could stand it. Only when she was in her favorite stretch of mountains, nearing the tallest 100

peak, did she realize the shift in the world as she knew it.

She had just heaved herself into a niche in a steep cliff face when she heard her mother call out to her, to come meet her new brother. This in itself was not an uncommon occurrence. Constantly working, Gazer ’s mother often called her to admire the newest method of life she had created. Gazer always obliged, though most of the time her siblings were just slight variations, more of the same.

Gazer’s new brother, however, was quite the exception.

Rather than the dark, deep dwellers who had been Gazer’s only family for millenia, her brother was bright green, scales flashing with a vibrancy the likes of which she had only dreamed. He had been born in the light, Gazer’s mother told her with immense pride. Near the surface.

That was the word that captivated Gazer like nothing else. Surface. The wonder! A whole different world, another everything, waiting for her. Poison and peril no longer, but openness and opportunity. And her new brother, with tail and fins like wings, was born at the threshold of it. As he grew, and more children like him were born, he came to know the surface, and he came back to Gazer every day on top of one mountain or another to tell her about it. Gazer wanted nothing more than to join her younger siblings as they left her on the mountaintops day after day, vanishing into the blue.

So great was her determination and longing that every day as she waited for her brothers and sisters to return with mouthfuls of stories that would please and infuriate her, Gazer gathered every stone she could find and lugged them to the top of the tallest mountain in her whole watery world. She stacked them, each one on top of the others, raising the mountain higher with every addition.

Upon his return one day, the oldest of Gazer’s bright siblings noticed her efforts. He had always pitied his older sister and her confinement to the ocean floor, so he immediately came to her assistance, and called his gleaming green kin to do the same. Together, they raised the mountain a mile higher every day, their father ’s waters becoming lighter with the gradual ascension.

101

They worked and worked, Gazer feeling the beckoning of the true sky grow stronger every day. The mountain rose higher. They worked. The mountain rose higher, until the surface, once a dream to Gazer, was close enough to touch.

She gripped the last stone in her fist, and with one final surge of strength, she pulled herself free of her father’s embrace. Gazer broke the surface first with her nose, then her eyes and lips and neck and shoulders until she stood balanced on her tower of rocks, the mountain atop a mountain, her arms flung wide with palms catching the light and absorbing it into her skin, infusing her veins with gold.

Her bright green brothers and sisters leapt out of the water with joy, splashing back down again and again, rejoicing at their older sister’s spectacular form: silhouetted against blinding blue, atop a stone just wide enough for her two feet, laughing up at the sky that had hidden from her for too long.

While Gazer was still marveling at the world from her dreams, her eldest green brother, scales flashing in the brightness, sought out his mother. He showed her what Gazer had done, and the giver of all life in the world was pleased. She rose to the surface and took her daughter’s hands. In them, Gazer’s mother placed small mounds of sand.

Every particle, her mother explained, every grain, had a breath of life inside it. She was to scatter them, and they would spread life across the surface, and that way she could live in the light with her mother’s new creations.

Gazer ’s grin was wide and beautiful as she closed her hands around the sand and turned from her mother to face the featureless water around her. With trembling fingers, Gazer plucked a single grain of sand from her handfuls and dropped it in the water right next to her feet.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then, with a sound like thunder from beneath, Gazer’s mountain began rising into the sky. Water streamed from gaps in the rock, falling in torrents back down to the ocean, while the mountain climbed up and up, until Gazer thought she could wrap herself up in the blue of the sky. When the mountain finally stopped, Gazer looked from her perch to 102 102

see her mountain was jutting from the ocean, water swirling around the edges where it broke the surface. The dark stone glistened in the light, as magnificent as Gazer felt.

With a shout of glee, she threw more sand into the water, leaping from mountain to mountain as they emerged.

She raised up flat stretches of sea floor, hills of dark sand, and every kind of mountain she could find – even some with fire in their hearts to mirror the one in the sky.

Gazer explored the surface of her new world, scattering sand in her path. Following close behind her was her mother, intent on creating new life. She brought ideas from the ocean, building new forests not out of dark green seaweed, but trees and grass, in the bright colors of her children’s scales – namely, the scales of Gazer’s younger brother, her proudest achievement.

Gazer brought land, her mother brought life. In his jealousy of this new bright world, Gazer’s father reached enormous hands out of the sea and clawed at the new land, severing and drowning it in places. But Gazer dropped still more sand, sometimes in little grains and sometimes by a small handful, until a third of the sea floor had risen up to join her in the light.

Her mother made more and more creatures, even crafting some in Gazer’s image. They would live on Gazer’s land, and sail her father’s waters, and thrive through her mother’s care.

It is said that after creating all the world as we know it, Gazer – or Pele, or Gaea – went to sleep, becoming an island of her own. And perhaps she did. Or, perhaps, she explores the world still, wandering somewhere between the deepest reaches of her father’s realm and the cerulean dome of the true sky. And perhaps she still keeps the habit of curiosity – that life-giving fascination – that compels her and all those of us made in her image to take a moment to stop and gaze, in wonder, ever upwards.

Isabel Allard

Paper Cut

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Sara Ganshaw

Collage

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Letters to the Sea

Winter Murray

Me: I don’t want to be afraid of you.

Ocean: What’s there to be afraid of? People love me. They travel thousands of miles to see me.

Me: I mean, I don’t hate you. I even go out of my way to visit you sometimes. I think you’re beautiful, but only on the surface.

Ocean: Are you calling me shallow?

Me: No. That’s the problem.

Ocean: I don’t understand.

Me: You’re fathomless. You make up seventy percent of everything, yet we barely know you. You could be hiding anything.

Ocean: You don’t have to worry about that; I’m no more dangerous than anyone else. Most people only want a superficial relationship with me anyway.

Me: I want to get to know you, but I’m afraid of what I might find.

Ben Shore

Digital Design

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An Ode to The Fish of the East River

Sadie Smith

You swim with cloaks of invisibility, unnoticed by hungry fishermen, unfitting for the aurora-like show of colors in the New York Aquarium.

Your schools part around Roosevelt Island, narrowly escaping a crash into the spear-shaped landmass, fortified by formidable walls of marble.

Who are you, anyway?

She envies you: the way you spend your lives in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge and still retain a purpose.

Your presence is sacred.

You own a vast chunk of the city, with no towering fees and expenses. No need for you to dodge businessmen speeding past you with spinning legs like Roadrunner.

She admires you: The way you tolerate the toxic water, surviving despite the odds and swimming amongst battered remains, cigarettes, half-eaten apples, and mysterious chemicals.

She isn’t supposed to be there.

And yet the opaque water and your apparent absence grip her like anxious fingers tightly wrapped around a pencil, drawing her closer.

The wind breaks the surface of the brownish liquid, like a million tiny ballet dancers on a malleable stage.

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She has this feeling it is all unstable ground, like Atlas is holding it up and with a sneeze or sigh it will come crashing down.

It is just you down there, though, swimming without a care in the world.

You are what she is searching for, I guess, when she leans too close and feels the all-encompassing slap of the water, its griminess seeping into her skin.

Peter Angelos

Photography 109

Cate Spaulding

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Pasta Collage

An Exercise in Mindfulness

Jane Watson

Wake up.

Spend the entire day thinking about you and only you – me, me, want, need, I, me, I, me.

Write that down.

Pen to paper, no blank space left. Now fold it up and tuck it up up and away for later.

Turn the key and climb the stairs, but be careful not to trip over the papers you should have taken up weeks ago and the forget-me-nots you forgot and every little thing.

Confront your bed and don’t lie down. Take a load off and unscrew the lid. Unfold it on the bed in front of you. Take a good long look – this is it. Have you taken good care of it?

Or have you spent your time filling it with nonsense, garble, shit, excuse me, folded fallacies, shoved into every cranny, inches upon inches of words upon words, folded and tucked, out of sight, in mind?

One by one, take them out. You put them in there. They want to be free.

You’ll notice they shift, ruffle with their release. That’s normal, the unfurling.

Go on, open the window. Most will go to it on their own. All you need to do is loosen the heavier ones. Lift and they’ll take flight.

Do you feel that? It’s an easy feeling. It feels almost as good to go to sleep with that feeling as it does to face the next day with no pen in hand.

Go about the rest of your waking time. Ask someone a question about them – you, you. Do yourself a favor and listen to the answer. after Toni Morrison’s Jazz

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Ahead of the Headlights

Sofia Gianuzzi

When I was little, car rides with the family served as nothing more than a nuisance. Why choose to be in a humid metal box, strapped in an uncomfortable car seat, when you could be outside playing? My mother would play god-awful music on the radio, or worse, the news. And above all, I could never sleep. Long, sunlit hours turned to dreary nights, and the car would fill with the annoying snores of my three siblings.

However, I could never manage to shut my eyelids. Why was I different? I blamed the alluring headlights, illuminating the street in front of us, demanding my attention and robbing me of sleep. And, although my father was an impeccable driver, if I weren’t watching the road, anything could happen.

As years went on, I could do nothing more than watch the headlights. Sleep overtook my siblings with the same force as before, but never managed to capture me as well. They trusted my father, as I could not, to deliver them home.

He would sit hunched over the steering wheel, occasionally grasping the coffee mug besides him and bringing it to his lips. The browned gold of the streetlights in front of us would illuminate the bags under his eyes, as he fought sleep the same way I naturally did. Occasionally, his eyes would meet mine in the rearview mirror, and wink at me. “Go to sleep,” he would whisper, although he knew it was pointless.

My father was obviously tired. What was stopping him from drifting off like the rest of my family? My eyes stayed trained on the road, ready for what I thought was inevitable.

But car rides never ended in the catastrophe I expected.

My father’s eyes never even seemed to blink, much less droop in exhaustion. As we returned home for the hundredth time, I watched my father carefully unbuckle each sleeping child and carry my siblings to their beds before returning to his own. If he had enough energy to lift my siblings up the stairs, I thought, maybe he wasn’t as exhausted as I had expected. Maybe he could keep our family safe, even if my guard was down. Maybe I didn’t have to stay awake each car ride. Just maybe…

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Recently, my family was driving home after a summer trip in Rhode Island. The cool air blasting from the vents in the car’s sunroof played with the wisps of hair surrounding my face, tickling my cheeks. My brothers tentatively listened to John Sterling’s deep voice booming from the radio, narrating the New York Yankees’ game. Behind the wheel, my father held a curious expression on his face, as if he were smiling, though his lips didn’t curve. As miles went by, hours did too, the Yankee’s game ending and the car turning silent.

The sun set behind the trees lining the highway, and once again, it seemed as if my father and I were the only two in the world with our eyes open. In the rearview mirror, my father, once again, caught my eye. “Go to sleep” barely escaped his lips, just loud enough for me to hear.

My head rested against the window, the hum of the car echoing in my mind. The golden glow of passing street lights seemed to dim as I, finally, fell asleep.

Sara Ganshaw

Graphite Drawing 113

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Grace Zhao

Painting 115

How to Use Chopsticks in a Town Full of Forks

Rachel Ong

Whatever you do, don’t stick your chopsticks straight up into your rice – it’ll bring bad luck.

It doesn’t matter if you got an A+ on your math test that day, or if you forgot to take off your shoes before heading into the house. Mom yells at you just the same. Dad might chime in if he’s not talking to your older sister about college.

Your younger sister might chime in too if she isn’t falling asleep from the exhaustion of sports practice. Just nod your head, give a quick apology, and keep eating.

When you go out with your friends to a Chinese restaurant, point out any characters on the menu that you recognize, and tell them what it means. It’ll make you feel better about yourself. You’ll find yourself bs-ing the meanings, but that’s okay. But avoid pronouncing the Chinese names when you order the food, not even the characters you do know; the waiter will cringe. You blame your parents for not sending you to Chinese school, but you know deep down that you never really wanted to go.

When you talk with your Chinese friends at school – the two or three in your grade, let’s be honest – don’t be afraid to let everyone know how Chinese you are. Talk loudly. Drink tea together. Be the isolated clan of Asian girls that intimidate other people. Embrace it. The photographers will gravitate to you when they visit school; you’re “diverse” after all. Even if you’re not so sure you want to be in front of the camera.

When you spot an Asian kid outside of school, you’ll either recognize them or try to figure out who they are. Are they related to that other Asian kid you know? Or are they just another one of those Chinese tourists casually swinging by? You’ll try to sneak a glance at them, just for a brief second, enough so that you can come up with their backstory and identify what “kind” of Asian they are. But do it subtly – you know they’re trying to figure you out too.

When your grandparents visit, remember these important tips. Put as much food on your plate as you can. Wait an hour

before you slip away from the dinner table. Make sure to put on makeup, but not too much. You don’t want Grandma to notice that your eyebrows are darker than usual or that your concealer is chafing. She might comment on it. Then try to learn a Cantonese song to impress her, but forget the name, and then forget about it altogether.

Repeat the family ritual every few months.

When you come back from visiting Asia, you’ll notice the differences more than usual. After the jet lag wears off, the memories will hit you. It’ll all seem like a blur. But soon enough you’ll get used to the routine again, and you’ll be back to using forks.

You might find yourself eating a potato salad or a casserole at your friend’s house, and you might sense that something isn’t right as you stick your fork straight into it.

You almost ask for a pair of chopsticks, but when you look up from your plate and remember where you are, it’ll suddenly feel like your mouth is wired shut.

When mom picks you up, say that you had a nice time, and mention that the food was okay (but not as good as the food at home, of course). You’ll be tempted to tell her about the chopsticks that you almost asked for. Try not to. She wants you to be comfortable here, you’ll remember. Remind yourself that this isn’t the time for nostalgia.

The Cantonese song, the one with the name you can’t remember, will start playing in your head. You might feel the need to get rid of it. Don’t. Just let it play, let every lyric run its course, up until you reach the edge of your driveway.

You’ll walk into your house and take off your shoes without thinking twice. As you enter the noise in the kitchen, you’ll see your dad talking to your older sister about college again, and your younger sister might just be asleep. You’re not sure. But once you sit down and see a pair of chopsticks – placed right next to a fork – a feeling will wash over you, one that you cannot explain.

You’re home, at last.

Tyler Gray

3D Design 117

Arriving at Pompeii

Jaclyn MulĂŠ

An hour before the gates close, we are nearly alone amidst the standing stones.

The golden urn rains light from the heavens, drenches the cool, graying world.

The sunlight seeps like molten gold through the cracks that sizzle underfoot, soaking our faces, steeping the laces of my shoes.

We see no guards – this is Italy, after all, says my father, but no matter the reason, we are Americans.

As the sun falls, the stones glitter with the shadows of ghosts.

I wonder how many travelers like me have wandered in these wondrous outdoor halls, how much beauty has risen from such a dire, dark hour.

Above, the early night releases an unbridled shock of violet plummeting with unprecedented fervor through the fragile veil of evening stars.

They break and fall apart before the world goes still again.

My parents have gone and I am alone with the shadows.

The first light splatters from the indignant moon that sits like a great cracked egg above my head.

Chris Ramos

Pen and Ink Drawing

I walk along the edge of a wall.

Some distant part of me hopes to fall and crack a bone or two, become a frozen relic of time like all the fossilized faces buried here.

But they are not buried – no, this is no burial ground for the dead; the dead have risen from the dust, curled in fetal positions behind glass walls instead.

I do not wish to enter their vaults and join them for eternity.

Unbroken, I amble along the edge.

If the bones of Pompeii survived the jaws of fire, why can I not rise unscathed from my ruinous desires?

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Becoming A Geologist My mother gave me a rock hammer before I knew how to use it.

I’ve learned to chip away at myself, unearthing buried layers of skin, hearing the first letter of my nickname left in the air like wow.

Elizabeth Winkler

I’ve tried saying it to myself: wow – her voice is missing. I sleep like a hammer – head, no heart – to remind myself that I gave love a nickname.

Friendship is the same thing, isn’t it?

Her touch was meant for my skin but I let her drive away.

Some nights, that summer takes me away, painting my body with goosebumps; I lean into the wow until my fingers are her fingers on my skin.

My chest, a plank of wood, splits under my nail, my hammer; when a sliver falls nearby, I name it: Remember, What If, Give It Time – names, not nicknames.

The splinters slide into my fingers, close enough to nickname.

Her voice is deep under my skin, put away where I won’t find it and so that friends will say, "wow, you’re moving on so well.” I don’t tell them when the hammer clunks from my tongue, chipping my skin.

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The splinters become a part of my skin: Remember, What If, Give It Time, circle her nickname.

I’m searching for a voice that isn’t a hammer, that can make the past seem further away; I’m not looking for her wow, just a way to forget the sound of it.

I’ve learned how to use my mother’s gift: it gets under my skin, holds me open like the middle of wow; I make a temporary tattoo shaped like the nickname “friend,” and I wet the back, cover the splinters, I look away as I press down with the head of the hammer.

I see her – a splinter of Give It Time, her voice's wow – and do not look away, remembering the drying nickname on my skin; I close my eyes and steady the hammer of my heart.

Alex Sala

Ceramics

121

A Lesson in Venetian Gondolas

Grace Zhao

In my head, I had transported myself back to my vacation in Beijing, gently rocked side to side in a small boat. Across from me sat a young lady plucking a Chinese cimbalom. I leaned on my mom’s shoulder as I watched intently, eyes fixed on carefully struck strings echoing in a register that seemed to match the ebbing pulse of the water beneath us.

This was my favorite corner of imagination, one that smelled like fresh peonies and jasmine tea on a small river at dusk.

In real time, I was actually playing a piece titled “Lay of the Gondolier.” Wrists shaking, I tried in vain to concentrate every shred of my being into articulating every note, every accidental, every dynamic marking, lest my tea-scented disguise for a Venetian landscape dissolve with a single deviation from the original score. As I finished, I drew my hands up, willing the sound to freeze in the air like drying concrete.

I awaited my teacher’s reaction, my fingers tersely jig-sawed in my lap.

“It is a beautiful sound,” my teacher began, pausing. “The one thing missing is that I felt like I could not breathe.”

Her slight Japanese accent hung thickly in the room as she proceeded to decode this musical picture of “needing to breathe.” Only nine at the time, I was, in all honesty, baffled; where did this “breathing” even fit in? I’d tried so hard, and I’d gotten all of the notes right, I thought. What wasn’t I getting? What was I doing wrong?

Apparently, a breath was not something that could be manufactured; a breath had to be allowed to live rather than forced into existence. My teacher sang the melody as she demonstrated, moving her hands in broad circles as if pushing and pulling the ocean tide from her chest.

“And here,” she said, pointing to a break in the music, “you have to let the phrase end, and you start a new one, like so. But you have to understand and feel this breath, otherwise we are all suffocating.”

I felt self-conscious at first, as if the turbulence of my 122

"feeling" would slant and warp the image I was trying to project. I dipped one toe into the water and held tightly to the guardrail, incredibly wary of the potential havoc this could wreak. I wanted to be able to micro-manage each sound I produced; I wanted to be able to play strictly according to my own predictable design. But, I also knew somewhere within me that music was something alive on its own, and nothing in my rigid methods would allow me to forcibly host it. I had to surrender my inhibitions; I had to let it live.

When I allowed myself to play it again, my hands moved on their own accord, fingers jostling up and down over polished black-and-white keys. Suddenly, I felt detached from my own body, as if the sounds from my teacher’s grand piano were being funneled through headphones to my dreaming mind. I was no longer in my calculated oasis; instead, I found myself in a Venetian gondola, rocking atop waltz-rhythmed waters, flanked by vividly colored buildings and docks. The melody came from a rickety but lyrical accordion, and happily, I hummed along – I knew for certain that I could not have invented this place.

I lifted my hands from the keys, and they hung in the air as if the gondola had docked, the pedaled last notes shimmering like the flashing ripples below. I nested my fingers in my lap, opening my eyes.

After a few seconds of complete silence, my teacher nodded approvingly. “You are much freer now.”

Lily Berger

Photography

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Zoe Hedstrom

Digital Design

Daedalus was established in 1986 by two students, Lara Scott and Laura Francisco. Since then, the magazine has grown and flourished. We continue to sponsor Writer-of-the-Month contests, travel to the Dodge Poetry Festival, organize a local Writers’ Festival, and host visiting artists, publishers, book designers, poets, spoken word performers, and novelists. We especially like welcoming back alums, such as Courtney Maum, who visited this year after Touch, her second novel, was published. Recently, Olivia Gatwood, Marie Howe, Sarah Kay, Eileen Pollack, and Spencer Reece spoke and led writing workshops for Daedalus. Editors run monthly manuscript meetings and writing workshops, mentor younger artists and writers, sponsor coffee house readings, and usher the magazine through months of production.

This issue marks the 30th anniversary for faculty advisors, Sherry Tamalonis and Jeff Schwartz. Since 1988, we’ve been inspired by more than 1200 writers and artists who have collaborated on Daedalus. Their work has earned 51 national awards: 22 Gold Medalists (Columbia Scholastic Press Association), 15 Highest Awards (National Council of Teachers of English), and 14 Crown Awards (CSPA). We believe, as Kimberly Barnes, 1989 Editor, wrote for our masthead, that “we are all creators and all inventors.” The goal of Daedalus is to nourish and take pride in every student’s creativity at Greenwich Academy.

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