The Spire 2020

THE SPIRE

2020 LITERARY MAGAZINE

THE SPIRE

2020 Literary Magazine The Spire is The Governor’s Academy student literary magazine.

Students submit their short stories and poetry to student editors who then decide which entries will be published. The Spire has been a voice for student literary creativity since 1966.

Winners of the Murphy/Mercer Short Story and Poetry Contest are also included in The Spire. The A. MacDonald Murphy Short Story and Thomas McClary Mercer Poetry Contest was created more than two decades ago to honor the work of the two English masters, whose combined service to the Academy totaled more than 65 years, and to encourage students’ pursuit of creative writing. Students submit entries which are read and

voted upon by the English Department. First prize winners in each category receive a book prize and their works appear in the annual publications of The Spire each spring.

Student Editors: Annabelle Svahn ‘20 Jessica Choe ‘22 English Department Faculty Advisor: Tom Robertson Cover Photo: In No Rush Cassie Reinertson ‘20 Special thanks to faculty and staff in the departments of English, Fine Arts, and Communication.

Vermont Rose Robinson ‘20

A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST

2020 First Place

Mon Amie

Annabelle Svahn ‘20 The stars were perfect. Émilie leaned against the wall, staring out the window at them. They were her most recent fascination. Meanwhile I sat on her bed with her little dog—the same the Queen owned—in my lap. Strips of rags covered the bed, she had paused our endeavour of creating the perfect rag curls in order to look at the sky. At the foot of the bed was a stack of books we selected from her father’s library.

Most of them were in french, and I was determined to read one of them to her.

She suggested a philosopher— Voltaire’s Candide—but I found the title Les Liaisons dangereuses more interesting.

“I think I can see Polaris!” Émilie exclaimed, her face nearly pressed against the glass. Polaris, she then explained, was the north star, the most important in all the sky. Last year William Herschel had discovered another star near it, and since then Émilie had been determined to find Polaris’s twin. I knew it was impossible to see it with the naked eye, but I remained quiet. “I’ve decided. I’m going to be an astronomer. They’ll write books about me!”

“Of course they will. I suppose a telescope is bound to magically appear?” I said, laughing. Émilie’s

father showered her with tokens of his affection. If I asked for one my father would see it as a fleeting passion of mine, just like my interest in horses, painting, and romance languages—all requiring a costly tutor of their own. Yet this time it wouldn’t be for me, it would be for Émilie and I. My father couldn’t understand that.

“What about all those tutors?

Things magically appear for you too.” Émilie crossed her arms, rolled her eyes, and jumped into bed. She then picked up one of the rags and started to wrap up a strand of her golden hair.

“I suppose.” After years of observing my friend I believed her father wished to repay his daughter for the loss of a mother. As one of six children, Émilie’s grief was something I could not understand.

“Oh Gus!” I hated when she called me that, and she knew. “When are you going to realize how happy you should be?” She pulled the tie from her hair, frustrated from it, and walked across the room. It was smaller than mine, but I liked it. Most of it was dark, except for the moonlight and the scattered tapers. The walls were scarce, without paper or decoration. “How about we play Queen?”

She pulled a box from her closet, where buried under tissue paper, were several dresses. They had been her mother’s, saved and transported across the channel. They were one of the few things Émilie and her father had left of their old lives. Émilie and her parents had fled France when she was six.

Something to do with religion, politics, and a falling out with the King; things Émilie and I didn’t understand. Due to a distant relation, and a series of favours that were owed, her family took refuge in the Dower House on our estate. Émilie’s mother, always having been sickly, and weakened from the journey, died soon after. It had been ten years since then. Émilie pulled out her favorite dress: a pale blue bodice with a swooping white skirt, embroidered with vines of pale blue and purple flowers.

The blue of the jacket matched her eyes, and I wondered why she never wore that color more. “Oh, how I wish I had an occasion to wear it to!” She said as she held it to her chest and spun around.

“Why don’t you come to London with me?” I said. She stopped spinning, a beguiling smile across her face. “I’m coming out this season, you can too!”

“You mean be presented to the King and Queen?” Émilie’s face glowed. “Is that possible?” Émilie had not been beyond the Somerset border in years. Her father preferred to live a

secluded life. I knew she missed her home, even if she had been too young to remember it. Many times she told me she wished she could see Paris again, and while I could not take her there, London could suffice.

“It has to be!” I said, nearly dropping the dress I had picked up in excitement.

“Oh, how I love you Augusta!”

We danced around her little bedroom, pretending we were two queens of important countries. We gossiped about our husbands and argued about the trivial matters of court. Then we blew out the candles, crawled into bed, and I attempted to read one of the french novels. When we tired we pulled the blankets to our chin, for winter had not yet left, and with her little dog snuggled between us, we fell asleep, dreaming of fancy gowns and luxurious dances. *** Two weeks later I left for London, alone. I had Émilie’s miniature in my hand the entire ride, given to me so I would remember her face while I was away. In the carriage I kept looking to my side, imaging Émilie beside me.

My parents had allowed the trip, but after discussion with her father, the plan was no more.

“You have plenty of friends in London, Augusta,” my mother said, pushing a loose curl back into my bonnet. “What about Elizabeth

Townshend? Harriet Pitt? You always speak of them fondly.”

None of them were like Émilie, I wanted to say but could not, so instead I whispered “I know,” and tucked the minature into my pocket. We spent the rest of the carriage ride in silence.

I attended the inaugural Queen Charlotte’s Ball alongside my friends.

Held in celebration of the Queen’s birthday in May, it would become the event to formally start the London season. My mother said the ball would be my finest memory, and it truly should have been. I bowed before the King and Queen, joined the others in dancing the evening away, and even was introduced to the Prime Minister’s wife, Lady North. Everything sparkled, everything glowed. The rest of the season came with a similar style of luxury. My days were filled with dances, social visits, and expeditions through London’s shops. As much I wanted to enjoy it, everything felt dull compared to my time with Émilie.

The ride home could not have taken longer. When we arrived at our estate it was already late afternoon.

Before my mother could whisk me inside I shed my cloak, cap, and boots and set off towards the Dower House. Émilie had seen the carriage come in and met me halfway.

We walked out to the pasture between the two houses. If you climbed up the hill you could see both the estate

and the Dower House, and everything in between: the forest and the fields, scattered with grazing cows and horses.

I laid down in the grass, holding a hand over my eyes to block out the sun. Émilie sat beside me, combing her fingers through the grass. At long last it was just us.

“So you didn’t find a husband?” Émilie laughed. In the months that had passed her golden hair had grown past her shoulders, and I even thought she looked a bit taller. I didn’t feel any different, but I wondered if Émilie thought I had changed.

“No, not yet. Mother says a few more years. Honestly, I’m glad, that just means more time here.” I realized then we had never spoken of the future before. As a child I never thought my life would be any different than this. For a while we sat in silence, listening to the gentle call of the owl, and the twitter of the songbirds as they settled in for the evening.

“I’m going home.” Émilie said, upsetting the quiet. I rolled to my side in order to face her.

“We just got here.” I remarked.

I could see the pink and orange creeping into the skyline, the first signs of night, but the lack of daylight had never stopped us from staying.

“No. I mean to France.” She spoke softly, hesitating to complete the word, as if the world would end if she

finished it. I sat up and stared, not sure if I heard her properly.

“But—” “My father has booked a ship.

He said we’ve overstayed our welcome, we were meant to leave years ago.” She looked away, out to the emerging sunset.

“No, no you haven’t!” I reached for her arm, frantic. “You’ve always been welcome here, and always will be. This is your home.” Émilie scoffed and leaned away. She pulled her knees to her chest.

I saw now that she was shaking. “I may have lived here most of my life, but this is not my home. I have family over there....I…” “You’ve never made it your home.” I snapped. “You and your father have been secluded for years.” My mind frantically searched for something, anything, that would make her stay.

“You can’t leave me! We have to go to London together!”

She stood and started to walk away. I followed, still grasping for the right words. “Don’t you realize how happy you should be!” I shouted. An owl called out, this time a fierce and loud screech. Some birds broke through the trees. All peace had vanished from the hillside.

“It wasn’t my father who said no to London. It was me.” She didn’t raise her voice, she spoke plainly.

Nothing made sense anymore, but I couldn’t argue, for I could barely speak.

“Just stay, for now.” I surrendered and sat back down on the grass. “Please.”

Unexpectedly she listened, and we laid side by side, her head against my shoulder. The sky changed from pink to a pale purple, like the lilacs from outside the Dower House. There were no stars in the sky that night, not even Polaris, because even as we laid there I felt Émilie slipping through my hands, like the way a star eventually fades into the universe, as if it was never there. *** The memory of that day never left my mind. I have spent so much time searching through my head for memories of you, only to realize it matters little now—for I believe the will of the mind is stronger than the captured image. We, without knowing, distort our memories into how we believe the past happened. You never laid your head on my shoulder that day in the field, instead you stormed away, and that was how we left it all.

Recently I even find myself tampering with the present. It has been nearly thirteen years since I attended Queen Charlotte’s Ball, and now I’m here to chaperone my niece Julia. I watch as she dances beneath sparkling chandeliers. I usually don’t think of my youth, but today, as Julia smiles and flirts, I think of us, spinning in your

room. Lady Elizabeth Townshend, now Lady Chatham, interrupts my memory and takes my arm. “There is someone you have to meet.” She whispers, pulling me through the crowds. The vision vanishes.

Lady Chatham babbles as she speaks, “She’s from France, married Earl Portland’s younger brother. Her family has been hiding out in the north, finally was able to leave, poor thing. I think you two would get along.” It isn’t uncommon to meet those fleeing from the terror in France, but something about Elizabeth’s comment makes think of you.

She called out to you, Lady Portland, as we approached a group of talking women. From the back I only see your hair, your blonde curled hair, pulled back and decorated with ribbon.

I have always wondered when I would stop being able to hear the sound of your voice in my head? When would the little, minute details of your face—that one freckle on the far side of your left cheek, the sharp angle of your eyebrows, the way your lips curved when you would smile—fade away?

When would there be one morning when, after hearing your voice in my head, I'd try to say my name like you did, with that flare and hint of an accent, and it wouldn’t sound the same?

As we approached, all those details that I vowed to forget abruptly came back. But then you turn, and it's

not you at all. It's a woman of similar complexion, but she has no freckles, no gentle smile, and no kindness to her face. “Lady Marie Portland,” Elizabeth says. I introduce myself, and make small talk with your imposter.

When the conversation is over I go back through the halls to find Julia.

I pause at an open window. The sky is clear tonight. I try to look for the north star, like how you taught me, but they all appear the same. I sigh. Stars, in all their constant glory, are trivial. I gather my skirts and enter the ballroom, looking for Julia, when someone catches my eye. And for a second, this time, she truly looks like you, and I find my breath gone from my chest.

But is it you? Or is it a trick of the eye? I’ll never know because right then Julia takes my arm, and with youthful glory, tells me of all her new friends.

Later that evening I return to my bed and I imagine that I am laying in the field, looking at that sunset with you. We’re laughing, we’re smiling, and I say I love you too. When I wake the vision is gone. As the years pass, the vision fades. Sometimes small things bring my memories back again, like seeing little red and white dogs, blue dresses, and articles about Herschel’s discoveries. These things pull me towards you, but no matter how hard I try, memories are no steadfast stars,

they are fleeting comets, and I am foolish to even try and catch them.

Mystery Mindy Liu ‘21

A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST 2020 Second Place

A Mortician’s Apprentice

Daphne Cuevas ‘21 I found it odd and rather unfashionable that Aunt Alma kept a copy of the yellow pages as a centerpiece on our coffee table at home.

She was so familiar with the modest town of Thornewall that on our frequent walks to the market, she could recall the exact year in which each storefront had first opened. She would mutter these dates under her breath, as the power of her memory kept her entertained. For this reason, I didn't understand why she was so adamant about keeping the tattered pages of the book until I needed them to find the phone number to Dr. Preston Loft's mortuary. I found the digits under the heading Funeral Homes and dialed uncertain if the phone number published over 15 years ago was still in service.

“Greetings, this is Dr. Loft’s mortuary services. I’d like to inform you that we are closed for the weekend, but will open back up on Monday at 8 a.m. Thank you for your call.” His voice mail was followed by an operator, but I decided not to leave a message.

The following morning I decided to make my way to the funeral parlor and meet with Dr. Loft personally. On my way there, I

recognized a few familiar faces, some of which I greeted with a head nod, and others I offered a casual hello, but I had yet to be in town long enough to learn and commit their names to memory.

When I arrived at the morgue, a small victorian-style home with grey vinyl siding and black shutters, I immediately felt the hair follicles on my pale skin react to the bitter air that filled the entryway. There was no one present at the front desk, so I decided to take a seat on the leather chesterfield couch in the waiting room. It felt stiff, almost as if I had been the first to put it to any use.

Beside me was a stack of catalogs, all filled with coffins ranging from boxes that appeared to be made out of cheap plywood to solid wooden mahogany caskets with velvet interiors. I flipped through a few pages of one until I heard someone open a metallic door at the end of the hall. Dr. Preston Loft appeared wearing a leather pair of oxford shoes, a long white medical coat, vintage round spectacles, and a pair of black latex gloves. He looked nothing like the man I had imagined when Aunt Alma described him at breakfast earlier that morning. He was a tall slender man with sharp facial features, yellow teeth, and

dark circles under his eyes that gave me the impression that his sleep-cycle was somewhat irregular. At first glance, he appeared to be in his late fifties, but the deep wrinkles under his chin told me otherwise.

“Now, I’m not sure what brings you here, young man. The clinic always notifies me before the family of a newly-deceased is set to visit my morgue.” He examined me through curious eyes. “More importantly, I have never seen your strange face around town before, which is quite unusual for a small Thornewall.” The unpleasant aroma of cherry tobacco that came from his clothing, along with his choice of words, immediately made me feel unwelcomed.

“Um...I’m Lee,” I stood up and offered my handshake, but he did not return my salutation. Instead, he gave me a blank stare. Embarrassed, I cleared my throat and continued. “I live on Oswald st. a few blocks down from here with my aunt. I just moved here from the inner city, and uh, you probably know my aunt. Her name is Alma. She tells me you two went to high scho-” “Did she die?” I couldn't tell if he was joking as the lump of discomfort continued to develop in my throat.

“Well no uh, you see I-” “Then may I ask why you're here, son? ” He cut me off again. He furrowed his balding eyebrows and began to turn his chest towards the front

door as if about to escort me out at any moment.

“Well, yes. Um, last weekend at the market, I was actually there with my aunt. Either way, I saw your flyer on the bulletin board and I’m actually interested in apply-” “You mean the internship at my morgue.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned pipe about the length of his index finger.

He placed the lip of the pipe in between that of his own and proceeded to retrieve a pinch of ground tobacco from a small aluminum tin. He packed the pipe, keeping it upright with the support of his lower lip and puffed until it was evenly lit. The bowl brimmed with smoke that would eventually fill the room with a pungent odor of Cherry tobacco. He had finished packing the pipe, but I didn't speak in fear that he would interrupt me again. After three rhythmic inhalations, he continued.

“Well, your obvious discomfort with the temperature in the room tells me you do not have experience with working with corpses.

If you did, you'd be indifferent to the cold. My flyer clearing solicited those with experience only. Additionally, you seem far too young for the position.” He wasn't wrong about anything he had said. The closest I had ever gotten to mortuary work was when I was required to dissect a sheep brain in a biology class during my freshman year. The

flyer did specifically state that experience was necessary for the job.

And lastly, my inability to grow facial hair did emphasize my youth. Although, I also knew that I would need to demonstrate some sort of internship on my college applications if I wanted a good shot at a scholarship, and his business was the only one in all of Thornwall offering one. So, I persisted.

“I mean, well I’m sixteen. And I’m an incredibly f-fast learner. And as for corpses, I watch lots of r-reality crime television.” He gave out a condescending chuckled.

“Well, this sure isn’t Dateline son, but listen.” He sighed. “Since your Alma’s nephew, I will allow you to come in tomorrow at 8 a.m. and we’ll see how it goes. Understand that this is an opportunity I usually would not give out. I hope you will arrive tomorrow ready to work. ” With that, he turned back towards the metallic door and disappeared before I could combine the words to thank him, the smell of cherry tobacco still lingering.

When I arrived at the morgue the following warning, Dr. Preston Loft sat at the front desk waitting for me.

“Good morning Lee,” he said expressionlessly. He offered me a white coat and black gloves similar to his own, and a medical mask as well. Once I had gotten dressed, he led me through the metallic door and down towards the basement. The walls were composed of

rustic white clubhouse bricks, which prevented any form of heat from getting in. As it was my first day on the job, I assumed that he would have me file papers or clean his medical supplies, but I asked anyway.

“So, what will I be doing today?” After a long pause I realized he wasn't going to answer. I continued to follow him down the hallway, listening to the click of his oxfords as they came into contact with the concrete floor.

When we arrived at a threshold sectioned off with a plastic curtain, he turned to look at me.

“Today, you are going to assist me with the embalming of a body. My neighbor, his name was Thomas Holmes. He passed just last night.”

There was no sign of grief on his face.

He pushed the curtain aside and on a metal table was the pale emaciated body of an old man. My pupils dilated at the sight of the corpse, but I forced a nonchalant expression onto my face in fear that Dr. Loft would retract the job offer if I appeared frightened.

“I’ve already completed the preparations, now I just need your assistance with draining his blood and replacing it with the embalming fluids.”

He made his way over to what appeared to be a large white crockpot, but I later realized that it was where he kept his concoction of embalming chemicals.

“Equal parts formaldehyde, ethanol, humectants, wetting agents,

and water.” He said listing the ingredients. “Your scalpels are on the tray. Pick up the one labeled with the number 6.” He wasted no time. I, disoriented by the foreign atmosphere that took shape around me, failed to realize he had given me instructions to follow. “Lee! Pick up the 6th scalpel Goddamit!” I jolted at the force of his voice and quickly followed his demand.

He proceeded to walk up to me and placed his index and pointer finger just above my collarbone. “This is your right carotid artery. We use it as a vehicle in which to distribute the fluid through the body.” Moving his fingers upward, yet still applying an even amount of pressure, he continued. “And this is the jugular vein, used for blood drainage.” He kept his fingers on my throat as he spoke. “I want you to cut precisely and insert the tubes yourself.”

Despite the apprehension I felt, I understood that I needed to move quickly to prevent him from raising his voice again. As I made the movements to complete his instructions, my body felt stiff.

The corpse laid naked on the cold metal slab, his body already rigid, signifying that rigor mortis had commenced. Behind me, I could hear Dr. Loft pull the pipe from his pocket and begin to pack it. The now-familiar odor of cherry tobacco filled the room as I placed the scalpel just above the

corpse' collarbone. I paused. And then I cut. *** I spent the next few months of summer working alongside Dr. Loft at the morgue. In a small town like Thornewall, a death occurred about every two to three weeks. Whenever business was slow, Dr. Loft would teach me new lessons like how to wire a jaw shut, or how to aspirate center cavities using a trocar. His personality grew warmer with the days, yet he was still blunt and assertive when he felt it was necessary.

One morning on my way to the mortuary in mid-August, I noticed the red and blue lights of an ambulance incessantly flashing on the sidewalk ahead. I thought nothing of it until I realized where the vehicle was parked. I sprinted to the entrance just as the paramedics rolled Dr. Loft's lifeless body out on a stretcher. Baffled, I demanded information.

“He had a stroke in his bed last night. Honestly, it was probably from all that tobacco he would purchase at my father’s smoke shop.”

I was left alone the next evening to preserve the body of Dr. Preston Ike Loft. Without the presence of his overwhelming spirit there guiding me, I hesitated before every movement I made. He took immense pride in altering the dead to make them appear

alive one last time before their funeral, and I tried to do the same. He was never the most liked man, but people respected the work he did, and therefore, I was sure that all of Thornewell would be attending his service. When I was done embalming his body, I picked his clothing from a closet I found in the basement. As I dressed him in a pristine black tailored fit suit along with his favorite pair of

leather oxfords, the smell of cherry tobacco filled the room one last time. I suppose it was Dr. Loft's way of communicating his gratitude.

Reflection Judy Wang ‘23

THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST 2020 First Place

Adopted Sestina Eliana Mlawski ‘22

I am discarded and orphan-born.

Abandoned on foreign doorsteps because blood was not enough to make my “parents” stay, yet I have grown more than they could ever know.

Offer more than weight of my ten-month cradle, found one dreadfully dreary morning at the Home.

Sixteen calendars ago, I was homeless without the woman who had carried and birthed my tiny baby-body. I was neither coddled nor cradled by them. The father of my own blood could not show me the love every child should know.

My basket was tattered. Haggard. Still, I do not remember the Eastern sunrise. Each eye, flooded searching saucers, seeking a home.

Even the nannies did not know what to do with an infant that birthed more problems by the hour. My blood boiled from sickness, and the orphanage cradles barely fit my figure. Each time the nurses cradled my feverish form, more wails called out. I never looked for the family of my blood that did not want or know how to open their home for the inconsolable baby born between their walls. Now I do not need shared flesh to know

the warmth and comfort another’s cradle can carry. My true parents didn’t witness my birth because they didn’t need to see it. To see all I can become. To understand the home I sought, but you say blood makes family. As if genes and biological bloodlines can determine who cares. Who will know how to turn a house into a home with food, and compassion, and a cradle cozy enough for the crying, sickly child. Well I have since learned, they did not need to witness my birth.

When I look back at my history in the Home, my heart bleeds for those not born into the safety I’m fortunate enough to know because far too few cradles were watched with such loving eyes.

Still Children Vy Tran ‘20

THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST 2020 Second Place

Ode to Papasan Chairs Katie Riley ‘22

You were not what I thought of when someone said “chair.”

Nor were you what came to mind when someone mentioned “bed.”

Rather, something different, unique, like a novel to a textbook, or a unicorn to a horse.

How wonderful it is to swim in endless seas of pillowy fur and feel every muscle in my body relax as I stare up at a skylight.

The peace I feel as I’m engulfed in a sphere of plush cushions and warmth and am finally able to really, truly, relax.

Or the joy I feel when a book is introduced to that idle, time-resistant nook, and I realize that I’ve been scammed by couches my whole life.

To be a Greek god, reclining as I sip sweet nectar.

To be a celebrity, relaxing on an inflatable, drifting across the glassy surface of my private pool, knowing that everything is fine because I’ve found success.

In all of your rarity, you are unsung and unappreciated, when it should be the other way around

Who Do You Want to See? Ava Kutner ‘21

By the Vending Machine

Sophia Waldman ‘20 Cynthia Johnson entered the cafeteria as she did everyday, taking a

seat alone by the vending machine. As the first one there, she quietly observed

as a sea of her peers flooded in from the double doors to her left. There were the jocks, bombarding in as a pack to occupy their typical seat in the back of the cafeteria, laughing audibly, the top of the food chain. There were the popular girls, stick thin with their long, straightened hair and skinny blue jeans, looking effortlessly flawless as always.

Then came the straight A students, the boys who watch anime, the emo girls, the theater kids. Then there were the misfits, those kids who didn’t quite fit into any defined friend group at Blue River Middle School but all bonded in the fact that they didn’t feel they had anyone to bond with. And then there was Cynthia, still seated alone by the vending machine, an outcast even amongst the misfits.

Her eyes panned about the room as she observed the smiling expressions of the two-hundred faces that surrounded her, her ears taking in the buzz of their conversation, absorbing the sound of their laughter.

Cynthia shifted her eyes down towards the styrofoam tray placed in front of her, home to her cheap cafeteria meal of four plastic-looking chicken nuggets, a gray dollop of mashed potatoes, a bruised apple, and a chocolate milk cartoon complete with a little cartoon of a dog on the back. She then reached into the pocket of her sweat pants with her left hand, pulling out her earbuds and carefully placing the ends into her ears

one at a time. And as the music overtook her senses, she drifted off into her own world, the chatter of the other students fizzling into a dull hum, off into a world where having a group of friends to sit with in the cafeteria, where belonging to a clique, where fitting in somewhere— anywhere—didn’t matter. Cynthia glared back down at her styrofoam tray, where the same shitty school lunch remained untouched. With ten minutes having elapsed, she came to the realization that no amount of staring at those chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes would increase her appetite enough to motivate her to eat them. She reached into her right pocket pulling out a singular wrapped piece of bubble gum, tearing off the paper and popping the pink delicacy into her mouth. Lunchtime will be over soon enough anyways, Cynthia thought to herself.

At that instant the bell rang, as if on cue. Cynthia returned her earbuds to her pocket, emptied the contents of her tray, and followed the swarm of hyperactive twelve-year-olds out into the realm of chaos that was the sixth grade hallway. Cynthia’s locker, number 36, was located roughly ten yards to the right of the cafeteria doors.

The journey from point A to point B constituted several collisions with other students, tuning out the random screams and shouts occurring left and right, and staring at one’s feet to avoid eye contact

with Caroline, the renowned queen of Blue River, and friends.

Sixth grade math came naturally to Cynthia. Seated in the back row, two seats from the door, she had always observed in silence, knowing all of the answers. But this was a secret none of her peers knew, and one none of her peers would ever find out, as she never once raised her hand to answer a question.

“Today, we are practicing the art of multiplying fractions!” Mr. Peterson exclaimed, a grin illuminating his youthful face. An awkward silence hung above the array of sixth-grader heads. “Ok, here we go. Let’s take a look at problem number one from your homework last night, which you hopefully all finished.” He let out a shaky laugh. “Does anyone know the answer to two thirds times three fourths?” As he scribbled the problem down on the large whiteboard behind him with a bright blue marker, Cynthia envisioned the scenario in her mind. She would raise her hand high above her head, Mr. Peterson pointing his finger in her direction. Heads would turn as he called her name, awaiting her response.

“One half,” she would state with confidence, reading from the tattered homework sheet atop her red desk.

“Correct,” Mr. Peterson would reply, and she’d smile, knowing she did it, she faced her fear.

“Caroline,” Mr. Peterson stated, pointing at the pretty girl with the blonde ponytail in the front row, her left arm waving in the air, “do you know what two thirds times three fourths equals?”

“One third,” Caroline declared proudly, ponytail bouncing as she spoke.

“Not quite, but close,” Mr. Peterson replied, scanning the room for more hands, “Riley,” he called out, this time pointing to the brunette seated three seats from Caroline in the front row with her hand raised.

“Two fifths.”

“Sorry, still incorrect, but so close. Does anyone else wanna take a guess?” Mr. Peterson asked, awaiting another raised hand. Just when it seemed like no one wished to give an answer, a singular hand tentatively lifted into the air from the opposite side of the room. Cynthia didn’t recognise the boy to which the hand belonged; he had dirty-blonde hair that shot out in all different directions, as though he’d rolled out of bed without running a comb through it. He was a little scrawny, leaning against the back of his plastic chair, dressed in a green checkered flannel and Nike sneakers.

“Alexander,” Mr. Peterson addressed him, do you know the answer?”

“Uh, one half?” he replied, anticipating Mr. Peterson’s response.

“Correct!”

Mr. Peterson shouted out in elation, jotting Alexander’s correct answer onto the whiteboard in the space next to the equals sign. “Now, number two was a tough one. Let’s see if any of you could get this. Do any of you think you know the answer to three halves times four thirds?”

No hands shot up this time.

“Anyone?” He pauses. “No one? I guess this forces me to start calling on you randomly.”

Randomly. Cynthia’s heart began pounding within her chest at an accelerating speed as Mr. Peterson’s eyes slowly scanned the room, praying they wouldn’t come in contact with hers. She stared down at her tattered homework sheet, determined to avoid his gaze. But she didn’t need to look up in order to feel the weight of his eyes on her, to know she would have to accept her fate. She lifted her eyes from the paper hesitantly, locking them with Mr. Peterson’s.

“Cynthia.” Two dozen heads twisted in her direction as Mr. Peterson spoke her name. “What did you get for an answer last night?”

Cynthia’s palms began to perspire, her hands to vibrate rapidly at her sides, her breaths to grow short and frequent. Two, she thought. She was certain of her answer. Two. Yet she couldn’t bring her lips to form the syllable. She could hear the faint giggle

of Allison and Maria from the front row as she stared blankly into Mr. Peterson’s blue eyes, noticing how closely they matched the blue marker he held at his side. Seconds slowed to hours, slowed to an eternity as she stared into his eyes, stared at the marker, wishing with every molecule in her body to evaporate into thin air.

“Uh, Cynthia? You doin’ okay?” Mr. Peterson asked, met with the snickers of her classmates as she continued to sit there in silence. But Cynthia remained mute.

“Did you finish the homework last night?” Mr. Peterson followed up as the class quieted down. Cynthia could feel her eyes beginning to well up. But she was strong. She wasn’t willing to go down like this. So in that moment with all her might she blinked away the tears clouding her vision. She swallowed hard, preserving her sticky wad of bubblegum between her back teeth.

“Yes,” Cynthia muttered. She inhaled deeply, blinking once more as the tears creeped back into her vision.

“The answer is two.”

“Correct! Good job, Cynthia,” Mr. Peterson responded as a smile stretched across his face, sloppily printing her answer underneath Alexander’s. As he turned his head and proceeded back towards his desk, Caroline peeked back at Cynthia, casting a judgemental glare in her

direction, then reverted her eyes upon Mr. Peterson’s return.

Cynthia wasn’t hurt, or at least that’s what she’d always tell herself in such instances. But some nights, she would lie awake in bed, staring upwards towards her ceiling fan as it revolved around and around, wondering what it would be like to spend a day as a Caroline, or a Riley, or an Allison, or a Maria. Perfect hair, perfect face, perfect clothes. An abundance of friends a call away, attention from the boys, fame (or at least within the confines of Blue River Middle School). But Cynthia knew deep within her that there was no straightening iron, no pair of skinny jeans in the world that could transform her into a Caroline, or a Riley, or an Allison, or a Maria. It was something you were born with, encoded in your DNA. Caroline and her friends were always destined for a life of popularity.

And Cynthia Johnson was destined for a life of chronic seclusion. There was no niche for Cynthia. *** The following day at school, Cynthia entered the cafeteria as always, taking her seat by the vending machine, observing numbly as the typical cliques filed in via the double doors to her right.

The jocks, the popular girls, the A students, the boys who watch anime, the emo girls, the theater kids, the misfits— no surprises. The monotony was almost comforting to Cynthia as she strung out

the tangled wire of her earbuds from her pocket, fumbling the first end into her left ear. Wednesday’s meal awaited her upon her styrofoam tray: a main course of remarkably dry french toast sticks with a side course of undercooked hash browns, and a gradually melting ice cream sandwich bar for dessert to top it off. Her chocolate milk carton was placed off to the side per usual, as untouched as the rest of the meal.

Today’s cartoon was of a cat.

But as Cynthia began to tuck in her right earbud, preparing her escape from the hell of the cafeteria and to allow the sound of the music to transport her into her own world, a familiar voice caught her attention.

“Hey, uh, Cynthia, right?”

Cynthia spun around to face the owner of the voice. It was Alexander. From math class.

“Hey,” Cynthia replied, struggling to maintain eye contact. After yesterday’s fiasco, Cynthia didn’t wish to encounter anyone who has witnessed that math class. “Yeah, that’s me,” she expelled an anxious laugh.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked with a slight smile, gesturing at the empty seat across from Cynthia. He wore a red flannel today in place of the green one, paired with the same Nike sneakers.

She hesitated momentarily. No one had ever asked this before. “Uh, no,

no one’s sitting there. You can sit there.

If you want to.”

Alexander slid onto the bench across from her, setting down his styrofoam tray of french toast sticks and hashbrowns. “You probably don’t know who I am. My name’s Alexander. I’m new here.”

Cynthia had figured as much, considering she had never seen the boy prior to yesterday. She carefully studied his bedraggled hair, his fair complexion, his hazel eyes. He was really quite handsome, at least by Cynthia’s standards; she couldn’t help but wonder why an attractive boy would ever wish to associate himself with her.

“It’s nice to meet you, Alexander,” she responded, allowing herself a soft smile.

Alexander motioned down to his lunch. “Is the food here always this shitty?”

“Yes it is.”

“You’d think they’d be able to provide us with something a little less...dry,” he remarked, poking at a french toast stick, “why do you think the food is so...shitty here?”

“Budget cuts,” Cynthia replied, cracking open her milk carton and poking the straw through the hole.

He chuckled, taking a long, slow sip from his own chocolate milk through the straw. “You know, I was really impressed when you knew that

answer yesterday in Mr. Peterson’s class.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. Improper fractions are tough.” He tossed a hashbrown into his mouth casually.

“Well, uh, thank you then.”

Cynthia replied, relieved he didn’t comment on her awkwardness or her tears.

“No problem. And that’s a cool sweatshirt you’ve got on.” Cynthia glanced down at her sweatshirt, white with images of butterflies ironed onto the chest and sleeves.

“Really? I mean ...thank you,” she replied, twirling a hoodie string around her finger, unsure what was so “cool” about it. Cynthia’s outfits weren’t “cool.” Would Caroline wear a sweatshirt like hers?

“Those are monarch butterflies.

You can tell by the orange and black pattern on their wings,” Alexander informed her, “did you know that monarch butterflies migrate each year to Mexico for hibernation?”

“No, no I didn’t know that,” Cynthia responded, the smile still present.

As the bell rang, and the rest of the sixth graders began bustling out into the hallway, Cynthia remained seated with Alexander for one extra moment.

“It was nice meeting you, Cynthia,” Alexander admitted, lifting

his legs out from underneath the long rectangular table.

“Same goes for you, Alexander,” Cynthia responded with a smile. And with her eyes following him as he reported towards those double doors, Cynthia was overcome with one emotion as she shoved her earbuds back into her left pocket: hope.

Us Judy Wang ‘23

Dear America

Chelsey Alimenti ‘22 Dear America, You told me you would support me...

That I would change the world That anything I dreamed could become reality.

But then I dreamed of the right to marry whoever I wanted.

When I told said this, the world laughed and said I was too young to understand how the world worked.

You said I needed to sit down and pray like the good little girl I had always been.

You told me I had a bright future, That I could do anything I set my mind to.

But then you showed me Barbies with impossible bodies.

And beauty queens that you watched like they were the definition of beauty.

You taught me that people would like me if I looked like that, But I did not look like that.

You told me I lived in the best country in the world.

That I was lucky to be born here.

I agreed wholeheartedly.

But when I told you what I did not like about the country, What I thought could use some changing You called me ungrateful and spoiled.

And told me to sit down and shut my mouth.

You told me that this country was the heart of the brave,

That it was a country that welcomed diversity.

A country that was born through immigration and new ideas.

But when I pointed to acts of unfairness and inequality.

You told me to stop pointing out the “little things� that were wrong And ignoring all the great things that we were doing.

I did not see why I could not do both.

You told me to sit down and fix my pretty dress.

I do not want to pray anymore.

I do not want to fix my pretty dress Or shut up.

And I definitely do not want to sit down.

I want to yell from the rooftops all the mistakes that you are making.

I want to talk about it all.

Shaming people because of their mental illness Excluding people because of their race, gender, or because they are LGBTQ+ Treating people as less because of their economic status and creating an unfair wealthcare system And everything in between.

Not because I think you are bad.

But because I love my country, And I know that we could be great again, Just not in the way you think.

Not by building walls but taking them down.

Not pointing out our differences but by seeing our similarities.

Not by hate but by love.

I do not want to sit down.

I want to stand up with my fellow Americans.

And I want us, the people, to build the country we want to live in.

To build the country we deserve.

And I want more than anything, For us to do it together.

Time to Taste the Noodles Rose Robinson ‘20

Rice

Tianyi Shen ‘23

Okinawa was soaked in deep ocean green by the time we got out of the hotel. I made my way to the restaurant, the imagined sound of sizzling grilled beef easing the weight on my dragging feet. Every breath that came out of me was relieving. I took in the flowing sea breeze with increasing greed.

The barbeque place seemed impossible to hold all the noisy customers that had crammed in. Every corner I looked, there were blurry faces, black and grey under the spattered lights, trying to wipe off the grease on their black and grey hands. When I turned away and sat down beside our table, the chair felt hard against my bottom as if pushing me away. Laolao pulled out her chair next to me, adjusting her position as she sat down, trying to make herself more comfortable. She held up the hand-towel packet and examined it closely, her small eyes narrowing as she struggled to make out the shape of a price tag under the dim, yellowish light. When she did that she looked like one of those typical asian comic figures whose eyes were drawn with a single black line. Across from her, my mom had already ripped open her packet.

Laolao was never in charge of the menu except for the times when she entertained us. We were always reluctant to attend those occasions, because everytime we ended up grazing

on plain rice along with one or two supersize dishes in an outdated place.

Those were the things that Laolao didn’t dare to dream of when she was my age, and those were things that weren’t worth dreaming to me.

My mom ordered, and two bowls of rice arrived at our table along with five big plates of sliced meat patterned like blossoming carnations.

Mom laid some down on the hotplate and drops of oil instantly started a tap dance. Laolao, after ten minutes of reassuring herself that the hand-towel didn’t cost any, finally teared open the packet and wiped her hands. Her calloused hands rested on the table edge like an archaic, stone arc as she watched the meat sizzle. Smoke was rising in the light.

“Dig in.” Mom motioned me and I reached for the closest piece in lightning speed, popping it straight into my mouth.

At that moment Laolao’s eyebrows twisted. “It’s hot!” In a hurry she reached into her shabby olive bag to snatch a piece of ravaged white napkin.

The distorted shapes of the napkins she carried around in her bag always drew us a silent despise when she took them out. She knew I hated it, but she still tried to expand the napkin into its original shape and brought it under my mouth, ready to catch the meat any second I spit it out. I tried to move my eyes away from the wrinkles on the

napkin but they were still distinct, and I felt parts of my vanity crumple into an ugly old lady. A year ago I would have spit it out, but now I’ve grown up.

I let the meat burn my tongue, ignoring the slight tremble that was slowly starting to overtake Laolao’s lent out hand. Under my eyes the tremble began to grow, expanding through her arm that was nothing but skin and bones.

The napkin on her palms began to dance like the sizzling oil. As Laolao’s arms shivered like a lone leaf floating down in a fuss of wind the mellow of the meat diffused in my mouth, melting me into a pond of unconscious happiness. The meat slid down my throat, and Laolao slowly withdrew her shaking hand, covering it with her other. She looked down at her own hands in a curious, solemn way, like a little girl standing in the center of the aftermath of an earthquake. Then she started her nibble on a piece of meat.

Mom didn’t even touch her food.

Instead she showcased her extremely pleased smile, ignoring Laolao’s humiliating act moments ago. “Good, isn’t it?” Like a queen who just won battle she endorsed herself in a sense of fulfillment that she, no other but she, had chosen the right meal and planned the perfect vacation for us.

“Nan nan, take a bit rice and I’ll eat the rest.” Laolao poked the bowl of rice into my plate.

“Lao-tai-tai, there’s another bowl here.”

Laolao ignored my mother and continued to poke me with the rice. I took the bowl and dumped more than half of it onto my plate, then pushed it away from me.

“Lao-tai-tai, she’s old now.

You should stop calling her Nan nan.”

Settling on the two spoonfuls of rice left in the bowl, Laolao raised her head to find the woman where the sound had come from. When she stared at mom perhaps she could recollect bits of the charm she once possessed in her own youth. But no nostalgia could last, and when she looked down at her bit of rice again she resumed her chewing, her wrinkles clinging on to her jaw, stretching apart and forging together like a seam running through the brimming of an old blanket. Those tottering stitches on her skin were loose.

Mom once was her Nan nan, too.

When I finished my rice and split the second bowl with mom, I was greeted by her ecstacy. Neither of us noticed Laolao pick up the menu beside us. We knew she didn’t like grilled beef—it was too exquisite for her—but we weren’t going to hold back our own temptations because of her. *** “Can you order a bit rice for me, more?” Laolao lifted her head out of her small bowl and looked at mom, her voice drowning down her throat. In

Laolao’s world there was no such thing as “a bowl of rice”, or “some rice”, there’s only a bit rice.

“Isn’t the meat good?”

The bait was directed to me but I didn’t fall for it. There was a while of silence, during which both Laolao and mom simply stared at me while I chewed and swallowed. My eyes shifted from my plate to the hotplate, then back again.

The silver hotplate was turning into a burnt yellow in the center, and I knew it was only a matter of time for the silence to shatter.

“Li—” “Ma, you should eat some meat.” Mom stopped Laolao from calling her by her name. She rarely calls Laolao mom, and when she does, she’s commanding.

Laolao put her chopsticks down. Instead of landing softly on the edge of the plate, her hand was interrupted by a small tremble, and one chopstick rolled to the side.

“Do you want some more meat?” “......sure...” Mom was already on the menu. “Can we get this set?”

“That’s too much.” I glared at her.

“It’s okay. Laolao hasn’t really eaten anything yet.” Mom straightened her back, sitting taller in the chair, her eyes lingering on me as she said that.

She surrounded herself with a careless, reassuring air, and when her eyes

concentrated on me the blackness of her pupils were taken back by a sparkle.

Suddenly she wasn’t just any random woman, but a young mother proud of having a child. My mere existence painted her in gloss and made her new.

Plates of meat started to come.

One plate, then two, and three. I watched the skinny waiter empty his tray, filling up all the breathing spaces on our table. I counted. Three, four, and five.

The last plate landed on the table with a joyful clank. There was no rice.

“Lao-tai-tai, you can eat now.”

Mom said in a light tone. I lowered my eyes.

“Where’s the rice?” There was a slight tremble in Laolao’s voice that alarmed me. I moved closer to the hotplate and laid some meat down, as if the sizzle could cover my awkwardness.

“Lao-tai-tai, eat some meat.

How can you be healthy if you just eat rice all day?”

I slowly turned the round control button, pushing the heat to grow.

“You can eat rice at home everyday. We made such a long way here. Just try some meat.”

“I don’t like the meat.” Laolao sounded like a five-year-old amping up to a burst of tears. Heat started to blur my eyes. I turned one piece over and in a startle, realized that the side was

overcooked. I hurried to turn the other pieces over too, but it was late.

“Lao-tai-tai—” “I’m not even worth a bit rice, am I?” “I didn’t say that—” “I have worked like a slave at your house for twenty years, and this is what I get. Not even a bit rice.”

Ten seconds and the other side will be ready. Just ten seconds. I closed my eyes and started my count.

One, two, three, four-“Stop talking shit.” Mom hissed.

I froze.

“How did we treat you like a slave? Tell me how?” There was a devastating calmness in mom’s words that pressed down all of her rising anger.

She shot out every word of hers like a silver needle, pinning her opponent onto an invisible wall in midair, leaving no room for argument. All that was left was only a preposterous portrait of the person who dared to oppose her. Words were mom’s weapon--- they glistened under her tactful manipulations.

“We treat you like family and you tell me I treat you like a slave. Do you know what life is like for a slave?”

“I’ll stop eating.” Laolao leaned back in her chair and blinked, focusing on the ceiling light. There was a draught of tears in her murky, brown eyes--- even if she wanted to cry she had long lost capability.

“No one’s begging you to.”

Mom bit her teeth. Then she turned her focus to me, her pupils widening as she saw the hotplate. “The meat is burnt!

Get it out!”

I was hit back into the counts that I had long lost. Now the meat was burnt even worse on this side. I fished them out, placing them between me and Laolao.

“Eat!” Mom ordered.

Sometimes I get scared of the cruelty of her love, resting on the other side of the blade that she used to protect me.

“I think I’m full.” That was the last sentence my mom needed. I knew as soon as I let it out.

“You think you're full? We just ordered all this--- do you know how expensive this place is?”

“You said Laolao would eat---” “Well apparently she’s not going to!”

I could start to see black and grey faces turning our way, their sitting and standing shadows swaying from left to right. As they turned their faces seemed to light up, their eyes and nostrils wide open towards the scene while the rest of their bodys melted into a puddle of mudd. A quarrel. In a fancy restaurant. Between two women who were family.

“Don’t blame it on Nan-nan!

It’s all my fault, all my fault, all right?— ”

“For blimming sake Lao-tai-tai she’s not a little girl anymore!”

Laolao’s thin lips pressed tightly together, the corners of her mouth lifting up like a puppet through an invisible string. Secretly I knew everytime my mom called her Lao-taitai, old lady, it stung her. They were stamps that covered her body and pushed her onto a one-way train tunneling back into the past era. They were the signs that she was no longer a mother but only an old woman to her child. They were ticking numbers showing that the love she cashed out was forgotten and will never be paid back again. A slight mock crossed her lips, then vanished. The curls of Laolao’s hair dropped onto her forehead, the natural curls neither my mom nor I inherited. She had dyed her white hair a light, yellowish-brown after complaining that I was making her Lao and making her age by calling her Laolao. Laolao was the name for grandma, and becoming a grandma was a deal with the devil at the price of relentless aging.

“I’ll go.”

Silence. Suddenly all the eyes and nostrils turned our way dimmed again, retreating into the murkiness they emerged from, pulling back like closing curtains in a 70s opera house. Laolao stood up and her chair hopped backwards in a thud. She bent over the table to reach for the unused hand-towel

packet beside my mother that was prepared for a fourth customer. Her stretched out hand was shaking but she pretended not to notice. Picking up the packet, she stuffed it into her bag and zipped it with a snap. Then she lowered her head to cross the bag over her shoulder, revealing a bare scalp under her sparse, light colored hair. Her hair was almost indistinguishable from the yellow fume of light. She crossed one leg out of the table and made her way out, struggling to straighten her long bent back as she went. My heartbeats resumed the counting.

Five, six...

“Ma!” My mom called out after her when she was three steps away.

Seven, eight...

“Stop this nonsense, please.”

She sounded tired, and defeated.

Laolao strolled out. And nine… and ten.

Mom turned back to me as Laolao vanished from sight. “Keep eating.” She said to me. *** The coast was in a complete dark, far away from the tourist village drunken in red and green and neon lights. In the millions of times that I would look back to that day when Laolao left, I would fail to recall why an argument started, why mom couldn’t have just ordered another bit of rice, or why I didn’t just say no to more food when I was already full. The only

question I never asked was why Laolao got so upset and went so much out of her way that night. I never saw who she was.

I saw her the way she wanted me to.

I failed to blame mom for what happened. If we had quarrelled, I lost.

That night when we left the restaurant I had so many accusations planned in my head that would break her down, but our talk ended unexpectedly short, and for some reason I can’t recall she said something that made me completely forgive her.

All I remember about the rest of that night is that I went onto a staircase stretching along the coast. It led into the sea. I kept going lower and lower until I was on the last staircase above water.

Mom was walking behind me when suddenly a wave rose up from the dark and pulled softly on my ankles. My

body obeyed the call, the rock beneath me turned into a slide, and I slid into the arms of waves.

Sea water washed up from my toes, kissing my knees and stroking my thighs. Waves flapped softly against my waist, persuading me into a gentle dream. My mother screamed and reached out to grab my arm and lift me from out of the water yet I would rather have stayed. I will never love my mother as much as she loves me, just as my mom will never love Laolao as much as she loves her. Love is never equilibrant.

Old age sewed my grandma’s loosened skin together in the same unmannerly way gravity pulled on the waves of the sea. The waves keep flapping onto the reefs and sometimes I would wonder if they ever hurt. But I never had the answer.

The Man in the Grey Car Scott Burnham ‘20

Orange Jessica Choe ‘22 The blazing sun gently touched my shoulder with its warmth.

I dug a little hole with a shovel tilted at an awkward angle as my tiny hands Clumsily directed the sharp point of the iron tool to the hard soil. I placed an orange Seedling into the hallowed ground and grabbed a handful of dirt,

Which I then patted with my small baby hands, satisfied with the work of my own.

To be fair, dad did the most of the work. But he let me take the credit from him And called the tree by my name. We watched it grow, sat on the bench nearby, him Stroking my brown locks that fell down and bounced against my shoulder. The warmth Of his sturdy hands shielded me from the chill spring breeze. But that tender image of our own Is now all too blurry. I can’t recall the soft touch of his calloused hands And the joy, which smell of droplets of sweat sprinkled on his back, mixed with stains of dirt, Once evoked. I looked out the window. The seedling was now fully grown. But there were no oranges.

All smudged and tainted with a new memory too fresh and vivid, that memory of planting an orange Tree is now a mere blot, all crumbled up in an unvisited attic of my mind. That day, I fought with him For not giving his hard earned money to go buy a soft, creamy scarf to replace the one I dropped in dirt While flirting with a boy. I ran away from him, crossed the road, and ignored his urgent voice without the usual warmth.

A blinding headlight. Then a violent honking. I expected a fatal crash. I instead felt calloused hands.

That startled look on his face like a frightened hare under the glaze of a drooling wolf—last of my own Dad, alive. They took his limp body and placed it in a coffin. Mom’s eyes wetted.

Visitors released their tears. My own Remained silent. The church was draped with curtains of various hues. Orange Prominently stuck out. I stared at it as long as I could. People clasped their hands And mumbled words of repentance, gratitude, and hope. My hands passively rested on my legs. Hymns

Filled the chapel. My lips hardly moved. They lowered his coffin. The warmth Of the gentle spring breeze kissed him goodbye. As I tossed dirt Over his coffin, my mind wandered to that summer day when we planted our seedling. He poured dirt Over it which I then patted. His eyes wrinkled into a smile as I laughed and danced around our own Blooming little tree. My lips curled up into a smile as I watched his lifeless body touch the cool warmth Of the earth--just as our plant once did. On my way home, I bought another seedling of an orange Tree and planted next to the full grown one. That peculiar smell of his shirt, distinct to him, tickled my nose once again. I could again feel his rough hands guiding my now long, dainty hands.

I love you. Sorry, dad. My lips mumbled words without an audience. My hands Gently patted the soil, completing the ritual. I buried them under the frail cover of dirt, The moments that could never be re-lived. I did all the work, but I credited him.

Dad’s orange tree, I called it. The floodgates of mine own Eyes, barred for so long finally unfastened itself. Tears rushed out and watered the orange Seedling. He used a hose, then, as I trailed along, grabbing onto his loose, faded jeans. I felt the warmth Of my tears. Angrily beating the ground with my hands, I sobbed, listening to the tremble of my own Voice that failed to join the voices singing hymns previously. I dried my tears and approached the fully grown tree. There hid an orange That I failed to notice before. The sun gently shone upon me. I could feel its warmth.

Happy Birthday Timothy Chung ‘20

Mercury Selina Liu ‘22 I used to have a friend Vending sunsets between Paris and paradise He writes poems for his friends Berries, barren, buried away.

I used to have a friend Lofty sweetness upon the flaming milky way He writes poems for his friends Cherries, cherished, carried away.

If we were to reach negative distance with someone Proximity between mercury and the sun

We would live happily, happily ever after We both did, separate from the writings on the walls I used to have a friend Precious names we wrote on pallid white walls The song you wrote for three seconds when you were thirteen Nightmares, nectarines, nyctophilia.

Why don’t we talk about How much I’ve changed or how much you’ve grown Not all of us are made of cinnamon and sugar.

Both our lives are wine, wisdom, peaches, poetry, poison.

If we were to reach negative distance with someone Proximity between mercury and the sun We would live happily, happily, happily ever after We both did, separate from the writings on the walls.

I used to have a friend Icebergs melt into ice-cream in his hand He writes poems for his friends I still remember mine.

A Burning World Bimba Carpenter ‘21

Only a Dream

Jerry Fang ‘22 Going to a family party is now a torture to me. As much as I love my relatives whom I don’t see that often, my eldest aunt is a pain in the neck. She is aberrant, nosey, and sometimes offensive and judgy. Talking to her feels like an inquisition, but little did I know how much it would affect me as a person.

“Pengjie!” I was still in kindergarten at that time. Suddenly everyone’s eyes fell upon me. “I’m so glad you are doing so well! Last time when I saw you, you were this big and you could not even complete a sentence!” She gesticulated my size as if I was a baby when she saw me last time.

“Oh. Yes.” I replied in confusion.

“You are such a man right now.

I’m sure you’ve grown so much! Now, tell me little man, do you have any future dreams or ambition right now?”

“Yes!” I blurted out.

“Tell me. What?” She had such a bright smile on her face that I did not dare to ignore her.

“I guess... I want to be a teacher?”

My mom was a kindergarten teacher, luring me to be one as well. She always gave an amiable and loving smile to her students. Whenever her students graduated from kindergarten, they would hug her and cry relentlessly

because they knew that they would no longer see her that much. Their cries touched something primal in me. I thought my mom had taught them some indelible and profound lessons that would benefit them all through their life.

Being a teacher was like a vocation to me.

I glanced at my mom, expecting an exhilarated look to appear on her face. That did not happen.

My aunt looked into my eyes for a second, blinked several times, and turned to speak to my mom, laughing in a bizarre tone: “Hehehehe. Zhang Wei, you should be proud. Your son would be a great teacher like you.”

There was an unnatural pause.

Not long, but noticeable. I peered at my mom, wondering if I said or did something wrong. She frowned, looked around the room, but then relaxed her facial expression, as though she didn’t want me to see it. A smile appeared on her face, but her eyes were shifting towards nowhere. It looked like she just forced herself to give a smile, one that looked even worse than a cry.

Then our party went on, as if nothing had happened. However, I saw my mom’s face. It was, to be precise, somewhat distorted.

My mom took me back home before the party was over. Sitting in the car, she was utterly expressionless. She

pursed her lips tightly with a disturbingly faraway look in her eyes.

Unexpectedly, she almost hit a car that was crossing leftwards in front of her. I was blown away. I’d never seen my mom being so absent-minded.

“Mom?” “I’m fine.” I could feel her voice trembling. “Honey. You just don’t understand. Being a teacher is too little and too much for you.”

I got perplexed. I was too young to get the meaning in her words that rooted in my mind since then. *** I didn’t easily give up on my dream to be a teacher as I grew older. I found myself intrigued by those educational psychology books. As a restless teenager, I could miraculously sit in the library, flip through the pages and not even get distracted by my noisy friends who didn’t even bother picking up those books. It was interesting to see how thrilled my classmates were in PE class and how sloppily they sat in psychology class. Beautiful contrast. I thought they just hadn’t realized the charisma of knowledge. However, every time I opened a psychology book, my mom’s words would simply pop into my head and linger: “Being a teacher is too little and too much for you.”

One day in my sixth grade’s psychology class, my teacher asked us a question: “Guys, in terms of your

dreams, how many of you would like to be a teacher in the future?”

I saw my classmates raising their hands one by one. All of them were girls. Then I raised my hand as well, as the only boy amongst them. Dead silence followed by, and suddenly everyone’s eyes fell upon me.

“What’s the matter?” I peered at my classmates, wondering if I said or did something wrong.

“Wow, Jerry. You really want to be a girl, don’t you?” A boy yelled at me with his high-pitched voice. His voice was so acute that it almost injured my ears.

Was that a mockery? Why would he mock me? What’s wrong with being a teacher?

“Wh..What?”

“You know only girls can be teachers, right? Look around and see if there are any other boys on your team.

Shame on you, loser!” Along with other people’s strident laughter, he started laughing.

That was a sudden strike on me.

Totally unexpected. I sat amongst the harsh jeer and obnoxious grimaces. If I could dig a hole in the ground and vanish from it, I would do so. I was staring around in bewilderment with my eyes wide-open on my chair, as if I was a heretic, or a misfit. The teacher cleared her throat and tried to appease them, but it was no use. They were exactly like my eldest aunt, unapologetically intruding

and judging my life without my permission.

Holding my tears, I ran back home right after my classes were over. I could not bear staying in that nightmarish classroom for one more second. I desperately needed to confide my grievance and anger to my mom.

My mom patiently listened to my complaints, although I was screaming, yelling, weeping, and letting out my fury. She leaned forward, beholding my eyes with her lips bitten, and then I could see her eyes moving elsewhere, as if she was avoiding my eyes. A wry smile appeared on her face with her tears sprouting in her eyes, and she blinked so much in case her tears fell off.

“I … I knew it.” I could tell that she was trying so hard to control herself, but her effort was futile. Her voice was obviously shaky and feeble.

“What? You knew what?”

“You know, honey.” She paused and adjusted her breath. “Being a teacher is just not a right job for men.”

My astonishment and confusion shut my mouth. I didn’t expect her response to be like that.

“Honey…”

She breathed deeply and took back her tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to have a tough life.”

I fixed my eyes at her face and leaned my head leftwards with my brows wrinkled.

What? Why? Why would being a teacher bring me a tough life?

My mom swallowed. “You know I have some male colleagues, but do you know how they are treated in society? Do you know how much they are suffering from society's judgmental eye?”

“I…” “They get laughed at every single time when people ask them about their job.” My mom was looking downward while talking. “Their relatives disdain them. Society scorns them. They don’t earn that much. They don’t have that much power. They don’t attend a United Nations conference and honorably give a speech. They don’t take charge of a huge company and monopolize the whole market. All they do is simply spend time with kids.”

“Mom, what’s wrong with spending time with kids?” I responded defensively. I was offended.

“Jerry, it’s just… it’s just not what society expects.” She gave me a resigned look. “Society wants a man to be ambitious. Society wants an ambitious man with money and power.

But society doesn't want a coward simply staying around with kids all the time.”

At that moment, I understood what mom meant that night in the car.

For society, being a teacher is too little responsibility for a man to take care of. And thus, it is also way too

much pressure and mockery for a man to suffer from.

But I thought she would understand me.

Even my mom, an admirable and reputable teacher, were enslaved by society’s stereotypes, traditional norms, and its cheesy beliefs.

“I thought you would know, mom,” I gawked at her. My eyes welled up with tears. It took me so much courage and energy to open my mouth and speak. “I thought you would know.

You are the one that teaches the indelible lessons to kids. You are the one that changes kids' lives. I thought you would know how satisfying, meaningful and sacred being a teacher is. I thought you would understand my ambition…” “...But no. You are no different than anyone else.”

I could feel the blood flowing to my head. I knew my face looked bright red.

Because I don’t believe in those shit. The tacky, cheesy, lame society is pure shit.

I took a heavy walk to my room and slammed my door as hard as I could.

Trembling towards my bed, I was too

weary to do anything other than sleeping.

“Just sleep.” I’d been told that sleep can soothe any anxiety in me.

My dream was reminiscent of my family party when I was in kindergarten, including my aunt.

Wearing a smiley mask, she asked me the same question as before: “Now, tell me little man, do you have any future dreams or ambition right now?”

“I do.” I responded in an adamant manner. “I want to be a teacher.

I want to have an impact on anyone in any way I possibly can. I want everyone to respect my aspiration. I want to stay free from judgement, from those antiquated societal norms. I want everyone, including you all, to shut your mouths in front of others’ lives.”

Then the figures of my relatives started getting obscure, and the light was becoming dimmer and dimmer.

When everything I could see turned out to be mere darkness, I awoke with a start.

Welcome back to real life.

My dream could only be a dream. No more than that.

Fluid Interconnectivity Will Nekoroski ‘20

Descent into Darkness Ruby Hawes ‘20 It was very quiet there.

She seemed to know all about them and about me too – guarding the door of Darkness.

An eerie feeling came over me.

The sun sank low, Stricken to death by the touch of that gloom.

The air was dark above –

a gesture that seemed to beckon a treacherous appeal to the lurking death.

Land in a swamp, march through the woods, feel the savagery.

They howled, and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces.

The woods were unmoved, like a mask so hopeless and so dark impenetrable to human thought, pitiless to human weakness.

I tried to break the spell – the heavy, mute spell of the wilderness – but it came to him, and he accepted it with a sort of eager fatalism.

I did not envy him for his devotion.

It appeared the most dangerous thing in every way I had come upon.

I seemed to have been transported into some lightless region of subtle horrors.

It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind.

And there it was, black, dried, sunken, heavy, like the closed door of a prison, brooding motionless.

We had penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness.

An animated image of death – smiling at some endless dream of eternal slumber.

It was very quiet there.

Facades Leo Lin ‘21

Love Poem

Rose Robinson ‘20 You spin webs and bake banana bread.

We listen to NPR on the highway, and I listen to you pitter-patter in the gutters.

I’d put your journals in my museums; you draw so well though you don’t think so.

Your antlers look like trees.

I love when you hold onto your leaves.

And I’d drink coffee or dance with you almost anywhere.

I love the way you skip stones.

I love the way your branches dip down to the water’s edge.

I come home on cold winter nights, and you are here with the light on, and it’s warm. Lord, for someone to love the sound of your voice, to love the sound of your voice.

You write sweet words on public walls— sums of initials, “I love ___”— It’s even better when your handwriting is bad.

I love the way you sway in warm wind and are liquid for a moment, the way your arms pool around mine when you hug me.

I love when we stay up late and talk in bed.

You make me laugh under moonlight and I love you for that.

I wake to your chirping in the hazelnut tree and your golden light pouring through the curtains you made.

I love you.

I love you, I love you.

Forget-Me-Nots: A Self-Portrait Rose Robinson ‘20

The Governor’s Academy

THE SPIRE The Governor’s Academy 1 Elm Street Byfield, MA 01922