2021 Anthology and Catalogue: Select Works by 2021 YoungArts Honorable Mention and Merit Winners by YoungArts

A N T H O L O G Y A N D C ATA L O G U E

S E L E C T W O R K S B Y 2 0 2 1 YO U N G A R T S H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N A N D M E R I T W I N N E R S

2021 National YoungArts Week + T-Shirt Design by Loli Vaccaro, 2019 Winner in Design Arts & Visual Arts

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS We are honored to share with you selected extraordinary works of the 2021 YoungArts Honorable Mention and Merit Winners in Design Arts, Photography, Visual Arts and Writing. In addition to the life-changing achievement of joining 20,000+ award winners, artists in these four disciplines now have the incredible opportunity to be recognized in a curated display of their art in this Anthology and Catalogue. We are thrilled that the work of our young authors and artists are publicly presented in permanent digital form. This annual anthology is always a vital step in the development and growth for this group of young artists, and a key moment in the initial YoungArts experience. Within the following pages, we know you will discover a diverse range of unique and valuable voices. Even though the YoungArts competition occurs once every year, our work is a year-round process that depends upon the knowledge and commitment of a vast network of artists, teachers and mentors. We are grateful for the many guest artists who have been instrumental working with us as we pivot to digital programming opportunities. We would like to extend our gratitude to Writing Selection Editor Dr. Joan Morgan and Copy Editor Jordan Levin. The publication of this volume is only made possible with the generous support of Together campaign supporters, including Campaign Chairs Sarah Arison and Thomas Wilhelm; Jay Franke and David Herro; and Michi and Charles Jigarjian and Lead Sponsors Sandra and Tony Tamer, as well as 7G Foundation; Aon; Agnes Gund; Baccarat; the State of Florida, Department of State, Division of Cultural Affairs and the Florida Council on Arts and Culture; Givenchy; Miami-Dade County Department of Cultural Affairs and the Cultural Affairs Council, the Miami-Dade County Mayor and Board of County Commissioners; Micky and Madeleine Arison; Northern Trust and PricewaterhouseCoopers LLP. Above all, we would like to recognize the 2021 winners for identifying their place as an artist in this world and taking the monumental step of declaring themselves as artists—a journey we are proud to support for the duration of their careers. This Anthology and Catalogue is dedicated to the 2021 winners, their families, teachers and mentors.

FOREWORD At YoungArts we believe in the importance of supporting artists at every stage of their careers, artists like you—strong voices setting out to make an impact. I want to take a moment to congratulate each of you on your accomplishments and to welcome you to YoungArts. YoungArts was founded by my grandfather, an aspiring concert pianist who, instead of being encouraged, was guided to ‘get a real job.’ Years later, when he was able to give back to the community around him, he made a promise to support talented young artists, so that they would not be discouraged the way he was to pursue a career in the arts. From this idea, he founded YoungArts in 1981. I am proud to say that his wish has become a reality. I hear time and time again how our programs not only impact the participants but also their families and communities. Acknowledging the profession of being an artist can change people’s minds about the value of arts in society. Artists are essential. From the clothes you wear, the music you listen to, the books you read and the paintings you find yourself lost in, the work of artists surrounds us. I can’t wait to see what you, the next generation of artists, bring to the world. Know that YoungArts is always here for you. May 2021 be the start of amazing things to come. Sincerely, Sarah Arison Chair, Board of Trustees

In an unprecedented year, when so many people have been impacted by uncertainty and disconnection, art is more important than it has ever been. We have all turned to the arts for refuge, understanding and inspiration. Behind every work of art is the power of human connection and storytelling by artists—by all of you. Thank you for your resilience and for continuing to share your work with the world. You are now part of one of the most extraordinary communities of artists and, as part of this network, you’ll find support and opportunity. We encourage you to make connections with your fellow winners, alumni, speakers and cultural partners who you will have the chance to meet through our digital programming and in person over the months and years to come. Together, we will amplify messages of hope and humanity through the power of the arts. Please know that our organization will be here to support you with mentorship, creative and professional development, and with funding opportunities throughout your entire careers. Our hope is that you will feel empowered to pursue a life in the arts. We encourage you to share your art and the lessons you learn from fellow artists with your community. We recognize not just your talent, but the many relationships and communities who have supported you in this journey. Count on them. Count on us. Congratulations! Our journey begins now,

Jewel Malone Executive Director

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S K H A L E D A B D O. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 H Y E W O N A H N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 4 A N O N Y M O U S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A R U S H I A V A C H A T. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

L U K A S B A C H O. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

H A N N A H B A M B A C H . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

D A W N B A N G I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

J U L I A N N A B A R R E N O S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

J E B R E E L B E S S I S O . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A I D E N B L A K E L E Y. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

D A N A B L A T T E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

S A M A N T H A B O H N S A C K. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

E L Y Z A B R U C E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

R A Q U E L B U R I A N I. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

C H R I S T I A N B U T T E R F I E L D. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

N A Z A N I C A S S I D Y. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

E M M A C H A N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

J O L I N C H A N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

J E A N I E C H A N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

L O R Y C H A R L E S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

L A U R A A N N E C H E N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A Y D E N C H I. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A M A R A C H I C H I M E Z I E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

J E N N I F E R C H I U . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

M E L O D Y C H O I. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

M C K E N N A C H R I S T I A N S E N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

K I E R A N C H U N G. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

C A R O L I N E C O E N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

M E E R A D A S G U P T A . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 0 J O R D A N D A V I D S O N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 2 K A T H E R I N E D A V I S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 6 M A R I O N D E A L. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 8 A A L I Y A H D E M P S E Y. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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S T E V E D O U. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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K E N D A L D U F F . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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A L E X A N D E R E M E R Y. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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T H E R E S E E N R I Q U E Z . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Q U I N N E R I C K S O N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 0 T A Y L O R F A N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 2 J O R D A N F E R D M A N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 4 S A M U E L G E T A C H E W . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 6 Z O E G O L D E M B E R G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 8 A R I A H H A M B U R G. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 0 A S H E R H A N S E N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 2 M A Y H A T H A W A Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 4

T H O M A S H I C K S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 6 S H U I H U. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 8 C O R I N E H U A N G. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 4 0 I S A B E L L A J I A N G. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 4 2 T I F F A N Y J O H N S O N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 4 8 P E N E L O P E J U A R E Z . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 5 0 K E A K A M I Y A. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 5 2 E M M A K E R K M A N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 6 0 S A M I K H A N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 6 4 F E L I X K I L L I N G S W O R T H. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 6 6 E L A N E K I M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 6 8 E M M A K I M M E L. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 7 0 T O V A K L E I N E R. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 7 2 D I V Y A S R I K R I S H N A N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 7 4 M I C H A E L L A U R I T O. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 7 6 W Y A T T L A Y T O N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 7 8 J A M E S L E E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 8 0 R Y L E I G H L E O N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 9 0 C O R I N N E L E O N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 9 2 C A M I L L E L E V Y. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 9 4 J U S T I N L I. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 9 6 K Y R A L I. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 9 8 A L L I S O N L I A N G. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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J E S S I C A L I N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 0 2 E M I L Y L I U. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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J A C Q U E L I N E L I U . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 1 0 E R I N L O F T U S - R E I D. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 1 2 C H A R L O T T E L O K E Y. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 1 4 K A T E L Y N L U . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 2 4 A L I C E L U B I N - M E Y E R. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 3 6 S O P H I E M A I N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 3 8 G A B R I E L L E M A N I O N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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T R A V I S M A N N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 4 2 A D A R M A R C U S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 4 4 A L E X I A M A R R I O T T. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 5 2 K R I S T I N A M A R S H A L L . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 5 4 I F E M A R T I N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 5 6 C H A R L O T T E M C C O M B S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 5 8 JADEN MCGUIRE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266 U M A M E N O N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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S O F I A M I L L E R. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 7 0 M A D I S O N M I N I S E E. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 7 2 L A U R E L M O R A. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 7 4 Y E O N J O O N A M. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 8 2 S T E V I A N D O E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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C H A R L I E N E V I N S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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J O H N N G U Y E N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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A N N A N I C K L E S S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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M A R L E Y N O E L. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 9 2 A I K O O F F N E R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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H A L E Y J O Y C E O L I V E R. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 0 2 C H I N O N Y E O M E I R O N D . . I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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A S E N K I M O U . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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K A T H E R I N E O U N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 1 0 K R I S T E N P A R K. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 1 2 I S P E R L M A N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 1 4 A R I A N N A P E R Ó . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 1 6 F E L I C I T Y P H E L A N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 1 8 M I C H A E L P I N C U S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 2 0 S C A R L E T T P I N K E Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 2 4 M I C H E L L E Q I A O. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 2 6 T I F F A N Y Q I U. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 2 8 G A I A R A J A N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 3 0 I S A B E L L A R A M I R E Z. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 3 2 Z O E R E A Y - E L L E R S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 3 4 B L A I R R E E V E S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 3 8 C L A R I S E R E I C H L E Y. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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A B E L R E Y E S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 4 2 A M Y R I U M B A U. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 4 4 J A E L A R O B I N S O N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 4 6 M A X W E L L R O B I S O N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 4 8 K A R I N A R O D R I G U E Z. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 5 0 A R T E M I S I O R O M E R O Y C A R V E R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 5 2 L U I S S A N D O VA L . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 5 4 V I O L E T S C H U B E R T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 5 6 P O E M S C H W A Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 5 8 A S H L E Y S H A N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 6 4 S Y L V I E S H U R E. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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E L I Z A B E T H S H V A R T S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 7 0 S H E I N A - R U T H S K U Y - M A R C A N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 7 2 A L E X A N D R A S L A B A K I S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 7 4 G R A C E Q S O N G. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 7 6 J U L I E S O N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 7 8 L A U R A S T E R N B A C H. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Y E J I N S U H . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 8 2 E S T H E R S U N . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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C H E Y E N N E T E R B O R G. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 9 2 H A M I T R I N H . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 9 4 J O N A T H A N T R U O N G. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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K A T H L E E N T U R K. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

400

A L Y S S A U N D E R W O O D. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 0 2 P A O L O V A C A L A . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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C I E L O V A L E N Z U E L A - L A R A . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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G R A C E W A N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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G R A C E W A R R E N - P A G E. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 1 6 A L E X A W E L L S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 1 8 D O M I N I C W I H A R S O . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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L I L Y Y A N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 2 2 J E S L Y N Y O O . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 2 4 A R D E N Y U M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 2 6 Y E W O N Y U N. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 2 8 S O F I A Z A M O R A - W I L E Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 3 0 A L E N A Z E N G. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 3 2 Z H O U Z H A N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 3 4 J E R R Y Z H A O . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 3 6 E D W A R D Z H O U . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 3 8 Y U E R Z H U. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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G U E S T A R T I S T S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 4 7 S P E C I A L T H A N K S T O E D U C A T O R S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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S T A F F. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 5 1 2 0 2 1 S U P P O R T E R S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 5 3

S E L EC T WO R K S BY 2 02 1 YO U N G A R T S H O N O R A B L E MENTION AND MERIT WINNERS IN D E S I G N A R T S , P H O T O G R A P H Y, VISUAL ARTS AND WRITING

KHALED ABDO Spoken Word | Plainfield East High School, Plainfield, IL

Former Fat Kid How long does a ghost stare at a mirror until the skeleton it leaves behind is thin enough? Do department stores know there are still ghosts in the dressing room haunted by what they couldn’t see? I’m told, “beauty comes in all shapes and sizes” and still, department stores only have one plastic mannequin with an athletic body, deceiving me that this is how a man should be six-pack, strong arms, emotionless. These mannequins all from the same mold, not flesh and bone, but fiberglass and plastic. I forgot “beauty” will not apply to men, forgot “beautiful” is a word that does not encompass me. I’ve separated the ghost of myself from the body, yet the image still haunts me. Why can’t I look like that? Body image is tainted like oil in holy water, and it’s not that I thought I was holy, it’s just that I believed I was whole before you convinced me, No, deceived me that I was broken and unworthy. The phrase body image sours my mouth. So used to seeing a singular image of a body, always white, fit, and photoshopped. So when you say “body-image” I hear “fat”. And so I took the name Fat Kid, understood you will always meet my body before me, so why bother being anything other than this body? I remember the first time someone called me skinny. I thought I had finally done it, deceived them into seeing me how I wished to be. That is what every version of myself for the past 17 years had ever wanted. Those five letters followed by my name, a claim of progress, as if I’m better for weighing less. As if I don’t have more to offer the world than thinness. As if I haven’t spent my life hiding from my stomach, or as if my childhood wasn’t filled with being told I needed to lose weight and then learning to have my stomach constantly sucked in; As if apologizing before you even saw me. While writing this, I thought, “How dare I?” The audacity to put former in front of my name when my stomach still rolls. But former, not like thinner, in that, yes, my stomach rolls, but I will not be defined by it. 12

Fat Kid decided to give himself a new name, one that does not paint him as too much. Now, I am done picking at flaws in dressing room mirrors because you don’t go to the art museum to tell Picasso he picked his paints wrong. I am the art. Keep the critique to yourself because the only validation I need is my own. I am praising the living body, counting blessings, not calories. I’m putting my foot down, announcing my self-worth definite: never dependent on the scale’s number. In my books, I am a 10 out of 10.

Islamic Peace of Mind The flower clock in the kitchen ticks just past five. We chew on silence while Mama tries to find the words to say it. She swallows her last attempt to shield us, and whisperingly asks if we know what happened today. Afraid to choke on the truth, my brother and I only nod. While Yasmin, still in the 3rd grade, only 9 years old at the time, has no way of knowing. 50 Muslims were murdered in Christchurch, New Zealand today, gunned down while Facebook Live watched as Friday Prayer became a Funeral Service. How do you explain a hate crime to a 9-year-old? How do you ask them to swallow the realities we're too afraid to speak? There are 1.8 billion Muslims in the world, but fear is the strongest silencer you can place on massacre. I can count all the Muslims I know on two hands. We're told to dodge our faith like it's the speeding bullet and our bodies are the firing range. Isolated Muslim means we’ll only ever admit it when it's used as a target after fatalities are counted. What am I supposed to do with this relic faith passed down by too many generations too afraid to teach it? I want community. Want someone to reach out for, but what's the point of unity if we're only lined up to be torn down? Muslim like watching the media in limbo. Thinking, ‘that could've been me’, then tripping on guilt as I realize the last time I was in a mosque was for a funeral as though death is the only thing that will bring me close to God. From New Zealand to Manchester to Minnesota to two hours from my home Christchurch was not the first, nor the last time, so how many more ghosts will you make of us before calling mosque bombers terrorists? I guess the definition doesn’t apply if they're part of your denomination. Whenever I try to pray, my bones crack and ache as though reminding me how out of practice I am. I say I am lost so where is the prodigal in this son when I am only the sum of my absences?

A running list of every prayer I've missed. and isn't it ironic? To find myself writing in biblical allusions. The smoke and mirrors on America's faithless illusion has finally fallen because forced prayers in school are unconstitutional, but English curriculums built on biblical allusions are fine. Like the stories of my people will never be told until there is a body count until there is a headline you can study in history. You don't mind Muslim smoke clouds so long as its hookah lounge, not broadcast. Divide and conquer isn’t that history? You take Muslim and make it Moz Limb Divide and conquer then we're just more limbs, bloodstains on your news isn’t that just history? The clock strikes a final hour doesn't matter which one it's always 5 o'clock massacre somewhere.

HYEWON AHN Visual Arts | Henry M. Gunn High School, Palo Alto, CA

What You See; What I See Watercolor 2019 14

Far Away Watercolor 2019 15

ANONYMOUS Creative Nonfiction

Good Gòng Chǎn During freshman year of high school, my English teacher gave me an assignment to interview a family member and write a cultural piece about them. She said I had leeway to be creative, as long as it was non-fiction, so I sat my dad down that night. This is his story. ***

It was 1966, the same day that the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution began. I was three years old, but I still remember that time. We lived in Laoqian, China, a city so isolated that it couldn’t be found on a map. It sat at the base of a volcano, where storms engulfed the dormant peak. Lying in the middle of a sea-green forest of wisteria trees and dry pines, the small city seemed almost entirely swallowed inside the mountain’s shadow. The night sky became a familiar rotating canvas, as if the constellations were tethered to the peak and arced across the sky as the seasons changed. Around that time, my father was sent away to Lao Dong by the communist government to learn humility from the peasant farmers. Apparently he had made the life-changing mistake of being born into a family of landlords. With my father gone, our property stripped away by the government, and no one to support us, my mother got a job three miles away from home as a math teacher at the local school, leaving me at the town’s daycare, six days a week. The red-brick building was two stories tall and built in the 1950s. The outside looked as if rust had been dripping down the walls for years. Inside were desolate, grey and white rooms. The only colors came from the red and white communist hammers and sickles plastered on the walls. A metallic tang coated the air, almost like that of a hospital. At first, I loved daycare. It was my playground. A 12-inch blackand-white TV sat on a stand against the wall, a luxury my mother couldn’t afford. The caregivers were nice local girls who also worked at one of the city’s bakeries. After our naps and before bedtime, they handed out baked goods, like pork-stuffed buns and red bean mochi rolls coated in soybean flour. On Sundays when I went home with my mother, I couldn’t wait to get back to the snacks and the animated TV shows on Mondays. Two years after I started attending daycare, the bakery ladies quit, and Ms. Shen came. She appeared suddenly at the school one day, standing in the main room, her hair a tall lacquered beehive. Her angular face and sharp chin reminded me of an angry god. All the children looked at her with silent tears and wide eyes, and the distinct smell of urine tainted the room. Immediately, she barked orders, “You will all do chores. Even the little ones.” She limited our television time to three hours per day. She made us eat iceberg lettuce and cabbage that she sauteed with cornstarch and vinegar every afternoon in our miniature kitchen. When she was hired, I was already the eldest at the daycare, so my job was to mop the floors in the afternoon and evening. The mop, when saturated with water, was almost as heavy as I was, and I quickly learned that if I tried to lift it, my balance would falter and I would topple over. That entire year, I smelt like detergent and urine. One Monday morning, I was so adamant on not returning to daycare that I sat down on the cold tile of the kitchen floor at home and whined, “But Mama, I want to go to school with you. I don’t want to go to daycare anymore.” 16

“C’mon, Songjing. Get up and off from the floor. I have to go to work. You have to go to daycare.” I shook my head stubbornly. “I don’t have time for this. I have to go right now,” Mother said. I didn’t leave my spot on the ground. “Fine, I’m leaving you here. You stay inside. There’s some leftover rice and cabbage in the kitchen.” She closed the front door, and her footsteps faded. In the middle of snacking, I felt an intense fear as I realized that my mom had actually left me alone for the entire day. I hurried out the front door and looked around. I walked toward the familiar stone-paved road lined with neighborhood shops. Vendors I knew by name called out to me. Mr. Lai displayed his fish in a wicker basket, and Mrs. Chang-Su lined up bundles of yam at her own straw-insulated station. I took a shortcut that went between the old brickmaker buildings and suddenly found myself face-to-face with a stray dog wandering between trash piles. The dog barked, and for some unknown reason, I barked back. The creature curled his upper lip and laid down his blacktipped ears. I turned around and fled, and suddenly, the dogs from the entire neighborhood shot out of their lairs and chased after me, barking madly. Maybe it was karma. I probably should’ve gone to daycare that day. Feeling the dog’s teeth sink into my calf felt like getting my leg caught in a door. Then, I heard a shrill woman’s voice screeching, “Songjing! Don’t you dare run! Hold still!” Suddenly Ms. Shen was leaning over me, her hair a tower. She was clutching her grocery bag full of iceberg lettuce. One look at Mrs. Shen and the dogs ran off. She grabbed me by the shoulders and heaved me into a standing position. On her face, her look was a mixture of surprise and sheer disdain. I hoped that she might carry me because of my injured leg, but she just shoved her grocery bag in my arms and stalked off to pick up the rest of her vegetables lying on the ground. Rather than bringing me home, she tugged me all the way to the daycare, where she washed my injured leg with soapy water and wrapped it tightly with a clean cloth. “Next time you decide to skip daycare, don’t expect me to rescue you from the dogs.” I didn’t respond as she finished tying up my leg. “Do you know where your dad is?” “He’s working,” I replied. “No, no your father is not working. He is learning how to earn his money.” It wasn’t until later that I found out that everyone in our town knew about my dad. Stories like my father’s were common gossip in our village. She tapped on her temple. “Your father is learning that people with an iron will must become obedient communists.” I had no idea what the word “gòng chǎn” communist even meant. Ms. Shen then added, “I am going to reform you, too. If you never see that you are wrong, Songjing, you will never become better.” With a steely gaze, she handed me the mop and the bucket. For six months, Ms. Shen became my mentor and purgatory. I became accustomed to serving the other kids meals. Bathed and dressed them and put them to bed. At night, I would empty the bucket full of human waste into the large earthenware pot sunk in the soil of their daycare’s garden. The smell of feces nauseated me to the point that I worried I’d fall in. One day, Ms. Shen brought me to the grocery store with our cart. On the way back, I was pulling sacks of rice and cornmeal as well as at

least seven heads of Ms. Shen’s signature iceberg lettuce. The villagers stared at us as I trudged along the dirt path in the direct sunlight. Perspiration made me feel like plopping down in the shade and sleeping, but I had to keep walking. There was still another mile to the daycare, and dinner had to be ready by seven o’clock. An older woman behind us suddenly called out. Ms. Shen and I stopped and turned around, and the woman hobbled up to us and glared at Ms. Shen. “Why is that boy pulling that cart? He can’t even reach the stove, and the cart is bigger than him. You are shameful. Aiya, pull that cart yourself.” The horror on Ms. Shen’s face was a refreshing reprieve from the horrendous heat. I recognized the old woman. She was the mother of one of the village’s leaders. My mom had pointed her out to me. Ms. Shen tried to defend herself, “I’m only trying to do what’s right.” “I’m a good gòng chǎn,” I added. I remember when it was my last day at the daycare, and Ms. Shen asked if I was going to remember her, her hand hovering over one of my cardboard packing boxes. “I taught you many things Songjing. You are like a son to me. You aren’t going to forget me when you’re all grown up, are you?” “No.” And with that, Ms. Shen and I finished packing all my belongings, and my mother took me home. Many years later, after Father had come home from the correction camps, I was on my way to the grocery store with him. By then, I was in the number one student college studying chemistry, but I was home for a visit. While we were waiting for the bus, I saw people smoking and drinking at the edges of the streets. I turned to my dad. “So what are we getting from the store?” “Your mom wants some bok choy, pickled vegetables, and dried shrimp. That’s all, I guess.” As the bus neared, I spotted a middle-aged lady across the street. It was Ms. Shen. There was a small girl clinging to her hand. Suddenly, a grey blur passed in front of me, and an automated voice flooded my ears: Station 6. Laoqian. My dad looked at me. “Do you know that lady?” I stepped towards the door, stealing a quick glance through the bus’s windows. I couldn’t see anything. It didn’t matter. I turned to my dad. “She was the headmaster of my daycare, Ms. Shen.” I was surprised I recognized her face after all those years. “Do you want to say hello?” “No, that’s okay.” My dad and I boarded the bus together. Seeing Ms. Shen made me think of communism. Was I a good gòng chǎn? Although my dad and I didn’t consider ourselves true communists, I’d grown to respect hard work and the results that came with it.

A R U S H I AVA C H AT Novel | Foothill High School, Pleasanton, CA

YOU ARE MY SONIYA Chapter One “Hold still,” Alina orders, gently sweeping a gold shadow over my eyelids. The sapphire bangles Nikhil’s mother gave her last night jingle together musically with each movement. She pulls back a moment later when she hears me sniffle. “What’s wrong?” I shake my head, pressing the corner of my chunni to each eye to capture escaping tears. “It’s just,” I say, a lump rising in my throat. “You look so pretty, Alina.” It’s true. When I was younger, and Alina was in high school, I thought my sister had to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Years later, not much has changed. Today, her skin is pink and flushed in a healthy bridal glow, and her dark hair falls down her back in loose, shiny curls, shampoo commercial style. She’s wearing Mamma’s most expensive and elegant lehenga, a silvery blue ensemble with an intricately embroidered skirt that tapers into a short train at her heels. Swirls of flowery mehendi paint her arms, and her chunni rests gracefully over one shoulder, concealing all but a thin strip of skin above her waist. Alina smiles. “Thank you,” she says softly. “But you don’t. Not yet,” she teases, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “So no more tears, okay? You’re going to ruin all my hard work.” “Okay.” I give her a watery smile. “No more tears.” Sitting up straighter on the bathtub edge, I tilt my face up towards her. For the next ten minutes, Alina works in silence, pressing foundation and concealer into my skin with a damp sponge, dusting on powder products with a large, fluffy brush. Something warm settles in my stomach because it feels like before. Alina, back in the childhood bathroom we used to share, doing my makeup just like she used to for every Diwali, birthday party, middle school dance. It hits me in full force just how terribly I’ve missed this, missed her. Never can I go three years without her again. “All done,” Alina announces, and I stand up, turning away from her to examine my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Oh,” I say a little breathlessly, because I look beautiful. My skin is glowing with dewy radiance, eyes big and bright from expertly applied shadow and liner. I look to Alina in the mirror. “Thank you.” She squeezes my shoulder. “You look like a princess, Arya.” The compliment makes me smile. I adjust my chunni, trying and failing to prevent it from bunching at my shoulder. “Which princess?” “Jasmine?” Alina offers, and I wrinkle my nose. “I’m in pink, not blue,” I point out. I open the wooden drawer under the sink, searching for a safety pin to fasten my chunni to my blouse. I find one underneath some hair elastics and hand it to Alina. She secures my chunni in one smooth motion. “A Bollywood star then. Kareena Kapoor in ‘Bole Chudiyan.’” I raise my eyebrows, surprised and flattered. “That’s a very high compliment.” “I’m feeling kind.” She grins at me, and I wrap my arms around her waist tightly, reaching up to kiss her cheek. “Let’s go get you hitched,” I say, then stop, correcting myself. “Engaged, I mean. Officially, anyway.” Today marks Alina’s Roka ceremony, a traditional Hindu pre-wedding event that formally acknowledges Alina and Nikhil’s engagement. The wedding is still a few months away, but Alina and Nikhil will exchange rings today, and both families will exchange gifts. 18

Mamma insisted on following customs to a T. Alina protested at first, but I know she loves the attention and extravagance that comes with Mamma’s way. When we walk out of the bathroom, we find Mamma waiting for us in the hallway. She’s wearing a gold sari and deep red lipstick, the picture of elegance. My mother is very beautiful. Her beauty has faded with time, but not because of age. Her eyes have lost their gleam. Frown lines crease her forehead. She doesn’t smile anymore, not unless we have company. This is how I know her now. Proud, regal, and sad. She gives the two of us a once-over, and her lack of criticism signals approval. “Chalo,” she says then, tilting her head to the staircase. “Guests are waiting.” “I cannot believe,” Lisa begins, pushing a lock of ginger hair out of her eye, “that there is all this fuss going on, and it’s not even the real wedding.” I grin at her over a tall glass of mango lassi. The ceremony concluded just moments ago, and now I’m sitting next to Lisa Greenfield, my best friend since fourth grade. She’s wearing a borrowed lehenga of mine, a sparkly coral piece slightly too long for her even though she’s in heels. We’re on the bench by my Papa’s flower garden, sipping our drinks and watching guests dance to loud, joyful Bollywood music. “It wouldn’t be a Khanna wedding without the fuss,” I remind Lisa. Last year, I took Lisa with me to my cousin’s wedding, where the groom arrived at the venue on a grand white horse. She smiles at the memory. “True,” she says. “But I won’t ever understand it. My parents got married at City Hall. Then they got divorced like the rest of America just fine.” I swat her lightly on the shoulder, and she giggles. “You know I’m joking. It was a really beautiful, really emotional ceremony.” “I know,” I say. “It was.” Alina and Nikhil were both teary-eyed as they exchanged rings, and Papa was openly sobbing for the duration of the Roka. Lisa sips her mango lassi quietly for a few moments, and I use the pause to drink in the scene around us. It took several hours of hard work, but our backyard has never looked more beautiful. Red rose petals litter the walkways and strings of twinkling fairy lights line our fence. The lanterns I helped Nikhil hang from the magnolia trees last night glint gold in the fading sun. The sky is a hazy indigo color, hovering between day and night, and wisps of white cloud float up above us. Lisa nudges my shoulder. “Where’s Andy?” she asks casually. There’s a pause. “I think he’s still inside,” I say carefully. “He came in late, so he’s probably getting food now. He should be out soon.” Andy Bishop, a boy well known for his chronic lateness, is the third member of our trio. He moved to town in early middle school, when Lisa and I were already close, and the three of us became best friends after a fateful English project grouped us together. He and Lisa started going out last winter, after years of a drawn-out, will-they-won’t-they courtship. Just three weeks ago, they’d broken up. I still didn’t know the details of their split. “I’ll admit,” I start lightly, when Lisa doesn’t say anything. “I feel a little like the child of recently divorced parents. I’ve been splitting my time between you two. Today will be the first time we’re all together in weeks.”

“Trust me, not a comparable situation,” Lisa says, holding up a finger. “But yes, I know things are weird right now. It’s going to take time to get back to normal.” I nod like I understand, but I can’t help the worry churning in my stomach. Senior year starts in just a few days. I don’t want to begin my last year of high school without both my best friends at my side. “But it’ll get back to normal. Eventually.” Lisa continues. “I know it. We were friends before we were anything else.” “So you’re really doing well then?” I ask tentatively, twisting a strand of hair behind my ear. “With the breakup?” I don’t get to hear her response, because just then, Andy slides into the seat next to me, his plate laden with samosas, pakoras, and other savory snacks. He looks handsome; the navy kurta Nikhil lent him for the occasion suits his dark skin. “Hey, Lisa. Arya.” His voice is gentle. Lisa gives him a half wave that is so awkward it makes me cringe. “You’re late,” I say, mostly because I don’t know what else to say. “Traffic was crazy,” he says, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe.” I roll my eyes. “You live two blocks away, Andy,” I remind him. “So no, I don’t believe.” He grins brightly. “I promise I won’t be late to the real wedding.” He raises three fingers Scout’s honor style. “Knowing you, you’d probably be late to your own wedding,” I joke, and it’s in that moment I become supremely aware that I am sandwiched between two recent exes. Lisa slurps her drink loudly in the pause that follows. “Probably,” Andy says lightly. “Can you believe we’re going to be seniors so soon?” I say then, to change the subject. “I mean, summer’s practically over.” I pause for effect. “Winter is coming.” “Ugh,” Andy says, throwing a piece of samosa at me, as Lisa groans, “Worst joke ever.” They start to laugh, and even though it’s at my expense, a feeling of warmth settles over me because they are laughing together. “I’m serious,” I say after a moment, nudging them both lightly. “It’s kind of scary. Our last year of high school.” “It’s going to be an exciting last year for me,” Lisa says joyfully. “I’ve waited to captain since freshman year.” Lisa is the new captain of our Girls’ Varsity basketball team. I’m not a big sports person, but I’ve never missed one of her home games. She is our school’s starting point guard and pure magic on the court. “Should be an exciting last year for you too,” Lisa continues, tilting her near-empty glass of mango lassi towards me. “Vice President Khanna.” “Don’t,” I say, making a sour face at Lisa, because it’s a John Adamslike vice presidency. I only became VP because I lost the presidential election. Dean Merriweather, a soccer player with zero years of school leadership experience to my three, won by six votes. It’s safe to say I am still bitter. “Stop being negative,” Lisa chastises, and I roll my eyes. “I am who I am,” I quip, and then we are all silent for a moment. Something like nervousness twists in my stomach. I don’t know how to explain it to them, how much I need this night to not end. Tomorrow, I’ll be worrying about senior year, about my two best friends drifting apart, about Alina getting married and leaving again. Tonight, I can pretend none of that exists. “Let’s go dance,” I say suddenly, tilting my head towards the makeshift dance floor Papa set up last night in the center of our backyard. Beneath the darkening sky, guests laugh and sway to the music. Alina’s in the center, dancing with Nikhil, bright and happy. “What?” Andy says, rightfully incredulous. Never do I volunteer to dance. “I’m serious,” I say firmly, standing up and smoothing down the skirt of my lehenga. “I don’t know any of the Bollywood songs,” Lisa points out. “You’ll learn,” I say decidedly. I slip off my heels and begin walking barefoot towards the dance floor. I glare at Lisa and Andy over my shoulder until they follow behind me, grumbling mildly. Right then, “Desi Girl” starts to play on the speakers, and Lisa squeals excitedly.

“I do know a Bollywood song!” she exclaims, and I laugh, blow her a kiss. She shouts the lyrics she knows, pretends to shout the ones she doesn’t. Andy joins in a moment later, and I fill in the gaps in their memory. We shout and sing and dance until the sky turns to night and our feet are sore and aching. Chapter Two On Monday morning, I have breakfast with Alina and Nikhil. Mamma’s still asleep, and Papa’s already left for work, so it’s just the three of us. Our meal consists of leftovers from the Roka: a microwaved samosa and two barfis each. “You look nice,” Nikhil tells me as I set my plate down on the breakfast table. He’s sipping coffee and working away on his laptop. He’s got on a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses today instead of his usual contacts. “Very first day of school ready.” “Thank you,” I say, smiling at him. I’ve kept my makeup simple, and I’m wearing the outfit I picked out weeks ago: a flowy, floral top tucked into a pair of high-waisted shorts. “Those are my earrings,” Alina protests. She was leaning against Nikhil’s shoulder a moment ago, her feet curled up beneath her, but now she sits up straight, irritated. “What’s the point of you being home,” I say, unbothered. “If I can’t steal your things?” “I’m getting married, that’s the point,” she says with a glare. “Anyways, don’t forget. We’re going to the caterer’s this afternoon. Taste testing. Drive straight over after class.” “I wasn’t going to forget,” I say, even though I totally was. “I’ll be there.” “It’ll just be the two of us, plus Mamma,” Alina tells me. “Papa’s working. And Nikhil needs to drop his parents off at the airport.” Nikhil’s parents flew to Boston from New Jersey just for the Roka. They’ll be back a couple weeks before the wedding to help with any final preparations. Nikhil, however, is living with us for the next few months, working from home so he can be involved in each stage of the wedding planning. It’s been nice having Nikhil at home lately. I liked him the moment I met him, something that had never happened with any of Alina’s previous boyfriends. He and Alina started dating her sophomore year of college, a few months before she dropped out, and I met him for the first time that spring, on a weekend trip to visit Alina. He was kind, gentler than I expected for someone who loved my fiery sister, and he spoke to me like an equal even though I was thirteen and insecure. I’ve loved him like a brother ever since. “So,” Alina continues now, clearing her throat importantly and sitting up straight. “You need to be my buffer.” “What?” I exclaim through a mouthful of barfi. Alina presses her lips into a line, twisting the silver pendant of her necklace. “I mean it. In the week that I’ve been home, I’ve managed to never be alone with Mamma. It can’t happen tonight, either. Normally it’s Nikhil’s job, but since he won’t be there, it’s on you.” “You can’t be serious,” I say. I look to Nikhil. “Is she serious?” “Unfortunately, yes,” Nikhil says, but his eyes are sparkling with amusement and affection. “Can you believe she told me Punjabis being dramatic was a myth?” I laugh, and even the corners of Alina’s mouth tilt up. “It is a myth. I just happen to break the mold.” She gestures towards me. “Look how sweet tempered Arya is.” I stick my tongue out in response, but Alina ignores this. “Will you do it?” she asks. “Not a chance,” I say. “Don’t be childish. You can be alone with your own mother.” “No, I can’t, and more importantly, I won’t.” She folds her hands together on the table seriously, fading swirls of mehendi from her Roka just visible in the kitchen light. “I don’t want to fight with Mamma. And there will be a fight if we’re alone together. Help me out, okay? I’m the bride.” I roll my eyes at her. “I can’t believe you’re using the bride card. So unethical.” Her expression stays serious, so I sigh, giving in. “I’ll do it.” Immediately, she smiles sweetly and reaches over to kiss my cheek. “I knew I could count on you.” 19

I pull into the parking lot of Abigail Adams High School just after Dean Merriweather does. As student council members, our assigned parking spots are right next to each other. His car windows are streaked blue and red, our school colors, and boyish lettering spells out SENIOR SEASON on the rear windshield. It’s a loud, obnoxious paint job, very much Dean’s style. “Arya,” Dean says cheerfully when I climb out of my car. He’s standing at the parking curb, fingers curled around the loops of his backpack straps, waiting for me. He’s dressed plainly, blue jeans and a T-shirt, but his dark hair is styled in a way that makes him look put together. “My second-in-command.” “Nice,” I say. “How long have you been waiting to say that?” Dimples cut into the sides of his cheeks. He has a handsome smile, even when he’s making fun of me. “Thought of it over the summer.” “Clever, Dean.” “At first I thought I could call you Madam Vice President—” “Certainly more respectful.” “—but then it's only fair if you call me Mr. President.” He raises his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth curved up. “What do you think?” “I’d rather quit.” I slip my keys into my pocket and begin to walk past him. He catches up to me with ease, matching my quick pace. He’s taller so his legs are longer; one stride of his equals two of mine. “Don’t get my hopes up,” he says. “Every day I wish Josh Hartley had come in second to me instead of you.” “No, you don’t.” Josh Hartley had been the third and only other candidate in last spring’s student body presidential race. He was a stoner who had campaigned on the administration-rejected proposal of turning locker rooms co-educational, securing a clear majority of the male underclassmen vote. “He’s a Lakers fan,” I say sweetly when Dean opens his mouth to respond. “I know the women’s safety issue isn’t a dealbreaker for you.” “Hey,” he says, stung. “Women’s safety concerns me plenty. The locker room policy would never have been a reality.” “Tell yourself that, Dean.” He rolls his eyes and fiddles with his backpack straps, clearly desiring a change of subject. “How was your summer?” Dean asks now. There’s sunlight in his eyes, so he’s squinting at me through dark lashes. “I heard Alina got married. How was the wedding?” “You can ask me again in four months.” When he looks confused, I add, “Her wedding isn’t until December.” “Oh,” he says, brow furrowed. “I just thought—on your Instagram story—there were lots of wedding related videos.” “That was her engagement,” I say. I tilt my head to meet his eyes, smiling a little. “Cute that you watch all my Instagram stories, though.” He stops, momentarily flustered, but then his face slips back into an easy, unaffected smile. “I’m big on charity.” “Right.” We’ve stopped walking and are dawdling now instead at the shaded tables near the library, right where I meet Lisa and Andy each morning. We're both silent, studying each other, and his eyes are so blue and bright that I smile a little deeper in spite of myself. I blink, and the moment ends. “Happy first day, Dean. I’ll see you in class.” Chapter Three Andy and I have first period AP Literature together. We haven’t shared a class for a couple years now, and by sheer coincidence, we’re back in the same classroom we were in for freshman English. Our teacher is new, a young woman named Ms. Bray with sunshine colored hair and a personality to match, but everything else is familiar: royal blue wallpaper, splintery wooden desks, perpetually malfunctioning thermostat. “Hey,” Andy says now, nudging my shoulder lightly. I look up from my planner, where I’ve been doodling mehndi designs for the past few minutes as Ms. Bray takes attendance. “Have you spoken to Lisa today?” I raise my eyebrows a little, surprised, because Andy has been intentional about not bringing Lisa up in the weeks since their breakup. “Not in person. She sent me a good morning text, but that’s all.” To be precise, Lisa had texted me: HAPPY FIRST DAY BITCH JUST 180 MORE TILL GRAD at six AM and then left me on read when I asked her to bring me my coffee order before class. I figured the details didn’t matter much, however. 20

“Have you spoken to her?” I ask gently when Andy doesn’t respond right away. I keep my voice low, not wanting to attract Ms. Bray’s attention. She’s still working her way slowly through roll call, on the M last names now. He shakes his head. “I haven’t talked to her since Alina’s engagement.” He hesitates, then raises his dark eyes to meet mine. “I think she’s avoiding me.” My brows draw together. “Why would you think that?” I’d watched Andy and Lisa closely during the Roka, and though their initial interactions had been laced with some nervousness and discomfort, the evening’s end had left me hopeful that the three of us could eventually return to normalcy. “She wasn’t at the tables this morning.” “Oh,” I say, and the worry in my stomach loosens a little. “Is that it? She wasn’t at the tables every morning last year, either. She’s late to school nearly as often as you are.” “Yes, but on the first day?” He gives me a meaningful look, and I don’t know how to respond because he’s right. My morning encounter with Dean had momentarily driven Lisa and Andy’s relationship from my mind, but thinking about it now, I can’t help but share Andy’s concern. “Let’s be optimistic,” I say, even as the tightness in my stomach returns. “Lisa’s not a passive aggressive person. She’ll let us know if she needs distance.” He studies me for a moment, then straightens and nods. “I’m probably overthinking it. You’re right.” “I always am,” I say lightly, and he rolls his eyes at me, lips curving into a small smile. We turn our attention back to the front of class, where Ms. Bray is turning on the overhead projector, and don't return to the subject for the duration of the period. The rest of the school day passes slowly. I don’t share any more classes with either Andy or Lisa, which isn’t unusual considering our varying electives and the size of our school, but disappointment still twists in my belly at their absence. Without their company and conversation, I walk to classes alone, wireless headphones stuffed in my ears, listening to one of Alina’s Bollywood playlists on full blast. In Leadership, Dean grins crookedly as he angles his nameplate at me. I’m two seats away from him, next to Emilia Lopez, school Secretary, so he has to lean forward to catch my eye. Under his name, in shiny black lettering, the plate reads: Student Body President. “Font could be darker, don’t you agree? I think I’ll trace over in Sharpie.” His voice is low to avoid the careful ear of our teacher, Mrs. Marina. I should know better, but I take the bait anyways. “You’re a child,” I say hotly, irritation climbing in my throat. “Somehow you win like a sore loser.” His smile only deepens, and he sinks back in his chair, ridiculously amused. “Well, you would know.” When lunch rolls around, I wait for Lisa and Andy at our usual spot in the cafeteria. Andy arrives first, balancing a hot lunch tray and two bottles of cold brew in his hands. He has a free period before break this year, so he was able to get his meal before first day of school traffic clogged up the cafeteria line. “Is that for me?” I ask sweetly, reaching across the table to take one of the coffee bottles before he even responds. The other is for Lisa. Andy doesn’t drink anything caffeinated. But he’s been bringing us cold brews from the lunch line since middle school, when Lisa and I first developed our coffee addiction. “I feel like a waiter,” he grumbles, shrugging off his backpack and sliding into the seat next to me. “Without the compensation.” I roll my eyes and am about to reply when my phone buzzes next to me. It’s a text from Lisa. Short and direct: going to sit with my basketball girls today. please don’t be mad. Love you talk soon. Hollow disappointment, but not surprise, pools in my stomach at the message. Andy looks at me questioningly, so I raise my phone to show him the text. “So you were right this morning,” I say, voice clipped. He looks sorry, so I try to morph my face into a smile. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sure this is temporary.”

“I’m sure,” he says, too quickly to mean it. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something more but then decides against it, and I don’t push him. I pick at the sandwich I packed from home just for something to do. It’s only the first day and already all of it is wrong. Mamma and Alina not speaking. Dean in what should be my position. Lisa and Andy, my dearest friends, the one constant in my life over all these years, unable to be in each other’s company. Frustration at Lisa pushes against my lips. She could have made more of an effort, for my sake. Given advance notice, at the least. They’ve broken up and still I feel like a third wheel, an afterthought. “Hey,” Andy says now, nudging me gently with his shoulder. He gives me a smile, soft and sweet and true. “You’re all I need.” I smile back in spite of myself. “You’re all I need too,” I say, leaning my head against his shoulder, trying to convince myself the words are true. I swirl a spoonful of sugar into my steaming cup of masala chai, waiting for the drink to cool. Next to me, Alina picks nervously at her nail beds, ruining whatever is left from her perfect Roka manicure. Mamma sits on my other side, hands resting elegantly on the table, the only one who is still and seemingly unbothered by the silence growing thick in the air between us. We are waiting for Roshani Aunty, our caterer, to return to the dining room from the kitchen. Her home, simple as it is, serves as her place of business. Her services are in high demand; wealthy Desi families throughout New England book Roshani Aunty for every shaadi, holiday, birthday. When planning the Roka, Mamma found it difficult to even secure a consultation. Mamma and Alina haven’t spoken to each other since Nikhil dropped Alina off on his way to the airport a few minutes ago. I haven’t tried to facilitate conversation either. My job as Alina’s buffer is much easier without anything to buffer. After what seems like an eternity, Roshani Aunty appears in the doorway, cradling a tray laden with finger foods and at least six different kinds of chutney. She’s wearing jeans and a navy kameez with gold detailing that hugs her plump frame. “First appetizers ready,” she says musically, painted lips stretched into a sweet smile. She rests the tray in the center of the table, then takes the seat opposite me. If she can sense the tension in the room, she doesn’t comment. “Ladke wale nahin aa rahe?” she asks, inquiring after Nikhil’s whereabouts. “Nahin,” Mamma says, clicking her tongue in disappointment. Her hair is up today, pulled into a neat bun with a banana clip. “Typical American boys. No interest in such things.” “Nikhil is taking his parents to the airport,” Alina corrects coolly. She smiles apologetically at our caterer. “Their flight is tonight. He really wishes he could have made it.” “So sweet of him,” Roshani Aunty says. “Such family values are important in husbands. He will be very good to you, rani, I know it.” Beside me, Mamma sniffs at this assessment, disbelieving, but she doesn’t dispute it. Nikhil Joshi is perfect husband material by every possible metric, but he was loved by Alina during the three years she wasn’t speaking to Mamma, and that is a sin Mamma can never forgive. “Thank you,” Alina says sweetly, either ignoring or not noticing Mamma’s reaction. “Let’s start, then?” Roshani Aunty says, and then she launches into an explanation of the dishes before us. We are sampling aloo tikki, spicy deep fried potato patties, and sabudana vada, crispy balls of tapioca pearls, golden potatoes, and crushed peanuts. An assortment of chutneys is laid out for us to dip our snacks in. “Try with the cucumber chutney,” Roshani Aunty advises, as I help myself to one of the potato patties. “Shah Rukh’s favorite,” she adds as she spoons the thick green sauce onto my plate. I take a sip of chai to hide my smile. Roshani Aunty catered an event attended by Shah Rukh Khan, one of Bollywood’s most loved stars, a little over twenty years ago. She now speaks with authority on the actor’s every preference. Over the next couple hours, Roshani Aunty brings out two more trays of appetizers: mathri, bhel puri, and dahi papdi chaat, among

other savory treats. She’s been intentional about including both Punjabi dishes for the Khannas and Marathi dishes for the Joshis. Everything is delicious, but we are able to narrow down our favorites, which Alina then sends pictures of to Nikhil for approval. By evening, we have a working appetizer menu for each day of the shaadi. “These three chutneys, na?” Roshani Aunty asks, confirming our selections, indicating the mint, cucumber, and coconut sauces before us. “I think just mint and cucumber,” Alina says. “Neither Nikhil and I are big fans of coconut.” “We will have the coconut,” Mamma says, waving a hand dismissively. She directs her words to Roshani Aunty, not sparing a glance for Alina. “They may not want, but guests will want. You may excuse Alina. She thinks only for herself sometimes.” She smiles delicately to soften the words. Alina bristles next to me, and I squeeze her hand under the table. “Don’t,” I whisper, but it’s too late. “Isn’t this the one point in my life I am allowed to think only for myself ? It is my shaadi, after all, not yours.” Her voice is light, but her fingers curl at her side. Mamma’s eyes flash. “Oh, yes,” she says softly, matching Alina’s even tone. There’s a danger to her purr. “Silly of me to forget. Your shaadi, your life. You make your decisions, Alina, like always.” She dabs at the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin, then pushes back suddenly from the table, standing up. “Please excuse me. I must visit the restroom.” Roshani Aunty watches Mamma go, brows raised slightly, but nothing else in her expression suggests anything out of the ordinary has occurred. She turns to me and Alina now, smiling pleasantly. “I too will be right back. Let me put away the dishes.” She stands, stacking the trays and our dirty plates together, and returns to the kitchen. The door shuts behind her, and then Alina and I are alone. I elbow Alina sharply in the side. She winces, but doesn’t say anything. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut?” Alina glares at me. In anger, she looks more like Mamma than ever. Dark eyes, flushed cheeks, the same downward curve to her lips. “Why did she have to talk about me like that?” I sigh, exasperated. “You know what she’s like. She’s not changing. But you have to change how you respond to her. It’ll never end, otherwise.” She glares harder, but there’s less bite to her look now. “She makes me feel like a child,” Alina says. It sounds like a confession. “I’m getting married, and somehow she makes me feel like I’m still a child. Still in high school, still her disappointment.” I squeeze her hand. “You’re not her disappointment.” You’re her sadness, I want to say. Because that’s the truth. Mamma’s belly was already swollen with Alina when she and Papa arrived in Boston from Punjab. Twenty three years later, Alina is as much her body and blood as she was then. Mamma has been missing a part of herself for three years. Even now, maybe always, she is not whole. “She’s hurt,” I tell Alina instead. “Hurt and proud. That isn’t going away. But you can make an effort. Don’t rise to her bait.” I tilt my head to meet her eyes. “Okay?” She twists her engagement ring compulsively. “Okay.” Her eyes are wet, but she tries for a smile, looking back at me. “You sound so grown,” she whispers. “When did you get so grown?” Sometime in the last three years, I almost reply. Mamma’s not the only one who felt Alina’s absence. But it sounds bitter and combative and resentful, even in my head, everything I’m telling her not to be, so I just smile and shake my head and take the compliment. When Mamma and Roshani Aunty both return to the table, Alina clears her throat. She looks like she is chewing on her words. Her voice is forceful but somehow also bashful when she speaks. “Coconut chutney sounds nice.”

LUK AS BACHO

Short Story | San Francisco University High School, San Francisco, CA

The Hymnal 1982 It was lapis lazuli-blue, I remembered, sturdy and worn as a rock, with words instead of pyrite streaks inscribed across it in gold. I’d gone four years without thinking of that book, without recalling its tented spine in my clammy right palm, which meant that when I finally did, standing before the chapel where I spent the Mondays and Tuesdays and Fridays of my childhood, I was pierced by a shard of memory so precise that I almost lost my balance on the buckled sidewalk. The cover was bound in either leather or faded cloth, depending on what pew you were in, its cardboard corners wilting like rose petals, that honest serif type its only ornamentation. It was the most authoritative title you could think of, like naming a science journal Science or a poetry journal Poetry, a kind of synecdoche, and yet its design was Protestant-modest, save for the ball terminal at the head of the “2,” the unexpected spur of the tail. I was first surprised to recall these details, staring at the agape cardinal-red doors of my primary school chapel, but then I wasn’t. My pre-teen shyness had afforded me an abundance of time to stare at things. And that title had so comforted me, its subtle contradiction—that there was only ever one hymnal to worry about, even if it only belonged to a single year, a year long before our time, in the end. But that wasn’t true, I realized as I entered the sanctuary, checking the corners of the stained-glass windows for their ancient cobwebs and finding them—somewhat disappointingly—clean. The title was missing an “of ”—or at least a comma, a set of parentheses—which would have clarified the significance of the year, interrupted its perfect cadence. You got the puzzling impression that the year itself was meant to be a hymnal, or that the hymnal was a year. The mystery became only more confounding when I looked it up the other day, as one should never do, and discovered that the hymnal was first published in 1985. I couldn’t resist wandering into the closest pew and picking up the first one I saw. It was just as heavy as I remembered it. I smirked a little as I flipped its Bible-paper pages, hearing in my head a chorus of those pages fluttering, and recognized titles and numbers. The boys used to make bets on which ones Father Fischer had chosen for Chapel, rattling off their numbers like baseball stats. “Five bucks says it’s Eight,” you’d say, and the guy next to you would shake his head. “Too easy.” “Five bucks then?” “Not that easy.” In Friday Hymn-Sing, boys would request the Crusader songs just to test the chaplain, but he never wavered. We’d end up singing “Morning Has Broken” after all, thanks to a squirt in fifth or sixth, and there was something ineffable about the boys’ self-consciously deepened voices comingling in the ecclesiastical musk, the poetry about dew and blackbirds and sunlight that we’d all recite in unison for a couple of fleeting minutes. Up through eighth grade, even the worst boys sang, and the hymns were more moving for it. The worst among us loved to sing just as much as he loved to joke about engaging in anal sex with another boy’s mother. “Eli,” said a voice behind me, reverberating faintly, and I dropped the book onto the pew cushion and turned around. It was Tobias, or rather an overgrown version of Tobias, who had just emerged from the narthex. I laughed, loudly, and a lead-bisected St. John scowled down at me, colored sunlight streaming through him. “Tobias, hi,” I said, once I’d collected myself. “I go by Elliott now.” “For sure,” Tobias said, approaching. “What else is new?” The second thing I noticed about him—after his size—was that he’d had a decent amount of sex for an eighteen-year-old. It was impossible 22

for someone to hide such a fact. I could see it in his confidently cuffed jeans; his shoulders, which looked shucked, like ears of corn, even beneath his t-shirt; and most of all, his jaw, which rested confidently on its hinge. It made sense that Tinder—a friendly swipe—was how I’d reconnected with him, and that he’d been the one to decide our meeting place, “for old times’ sake.” We didn’t have any history, but I wasn’t surprised to see him on the app, either, a flurry of old memories settling on me like snow. We’d orbited each other, or I’d orbited him, all throughout grade school, he the lighthearted rebel, I the brooding acolyte. I’d registered his proposal of Meacham Chapel, coupled with our clear disparity in league, as an insinuation of his innocent intentions, but now I wondered if he was the type to be ironic, if he would want something tangible to take home. Tobias seemed to recognize that his question was ludicrous, or at least that I wouldn’t give a satisfying answer. “What were you looking at,” he said, “just now?” “Oh,” I said. “Just the old hymnal.” I waved my hand in its direction, and Tobias walked over. “Nineteen Eighty-Two,” he grinned, flipping through it like a photo album. “Almost forgot about this thing.” Tobias knew the book even better than I did. He’d been in choir from when they recruited in fourth up through graduation, exchanging soccer practice for Evensong and uniform for cassock. I was always jealous of the Elizabethan collar he and the other boys got to wear for special services, piously exempt from so much as a sideways glance, his glossy chestnut head held afloat by the whitest lace. Practically tone-deaf myself, I was never cut out for singing, so I resigned myself to gazing up at Tobias and his crew, physically farther from God at my layman’s lower vantage, watching a pinkish hole open up in each of their cocked heads. A boy could escape masculine scrutiny with a voice like that. Paradoxically, the higher the better—high-fives and shoulder punches were apportioned to sopranos who nailed the descant in “Joy to the World,” who snagged the solo of the mid-Chapel anthem. Tobias’ voice dropping the summer before eighth grade had instantly made him more attainable as a friend in my eyes, if elusively more mature. “You still singing?” I said. Tobias’ eyes were lingering on 209. “Oh, some,” he said, snapping the hymnal shut. He replaced it in its rack beside a discarded bulletin and a Book of Common Prayer. “Mostly a cappella now. There’s a student-run group at Taft, so.” “That’s cool.” “We’re not that good.” He set off down one of the side aisles, as if giving me a house tour, and I lengthened my stride to keep up. “What have you been up to, though, outside of school?” “A lot of theater,” I said, letting out a stream of air. “You don’t sound too happy about that.” “No, it’s good,” I said. I was always sounding like I’d been sentenced to acting without the possibility of parole. “Any leads?” Tobias said. “What?” “Any leads,” he repeated. “Like, big roles.” “Oh,” I said. “Yeah.” I looked at him. “I know what leads are.” “Okay,” he said, showing me his palms in surrender. His fingers were long and slender—a musician’s fingers—in contrast to my breakfast links. “Which ones?” He’d gone on to public high school, while I’d opted for private. As we passed a stand of about fifty votive candles—some of their

wicks charred but none of them lit—I tried to explain how Grayfield’s productions were of the more avant-garde variety, that he wouldn’t recognize any of their names. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” he said. We continued our slow lap around the sanctuary, mostly lamenting the college process, our futile attempts at branching out always circling back. Every so often, his bare arm would brush my sleeve, though he didn’t seem to notice. We paused in one of the narrow transepts, where Tobias buried his hands in his jean pockets and surveyed a stained-glass tableau of postlapsarian Adam and Eve. Although the couple had their classic ashamed postures and fig leaves instead of genitals, they offered no indication of retreat. Neither did Tobias. I wondered if this was an artistic shortcoming or an artistic statement, and if Tobias had noticed it, too. “You ever think about Mr. Brunetti?” He asked in the middle of a lull. “The math teacher?” I said. “Yes, the math teacher,” he said. “I’ll take that as a no.” “Why would I think about him?” “I mean, it’s not like I think about him a lot,” Tobias said. “Being here reminds me, that’s all. You remember that time when he started crying in Chapel?” “Oh, wait,” I said, his words threading my memory like a needle. “Yeah. I do remember that. So they were tears,” I nodded. “I wasn’t just imagining it.” “Oh, no,” Tobias said, more animated now. “I saw them from the risers—no doubt. The light reflected off them.” Mr. Brunetti was new to the school when we were in seventh, and he stuck out like a sore thumb among his peers on faculty: figuratively because of his flamboyant Italian accent, literally because of the crimson scarf looped tightly—regardless of the weather—around his neck. He started calling me “Thirsty Man” on the first day of Pre-Algebra because I’d taken a long sip from my water bottle before answering a question. He had a not-so-innocuous nickname for Tobias, too, though I couldn’t remember what it was. Tobias helped me piece together that he’d done the liturgy one of those earliest autumn weeks, barely indoctrinated, and how it must’ve been from 1 John or 1 Corinthians, since we remembered him pronouncing it “one” instead of “first,” which prompted a crestfallen smile from Father Fischer. As if to curry favor among his new students and colleagues, he muddled determinedly through the “ye” and “thou” laden language of the King James Version even as his voice faltered, out of effort or emotion, the latter of which Tobias now affirmed. “No, I remember clearly,” he said. “It wasn’t some obscure Old Testament shit. The reading was about love.” He looked not just at me, but straight into my eyes, for the first time in at least four years. His pupils telegraphed that he knew the way, that he’d stayed the course ahead of us. I hadn’t misread his forwardness, had I? I pretended to have an itch at the base of my neck. “Right,” I said. “Okay.” “I didn’t know what it meant then, but I knew it meant something. I only put it together later.” I looked at him, willing him to continue, but he just looked meaningfully at the Edenic couple. “Put what together?” I could tell he was daring me to say it, but I wouldn’t budge, if only this once. “Well, he was clearly gay,” Tobias said. “Obviously,” I said. Tobias smiled. “I just connected the dots.” “What dots?” I said. “Scarf, accent, Catholic country?” “Pretty much.” “We don’t really know anything about him.” “He clearly had some trauma.” “How do you know?” “Think about it, E—Elliott. And those nicknames.” “He was Italian. It’s different.” “He didn’t have nicknames for everyone.” “Alastair,” I said. “Exactly. Have you seen his Insta?” I disliked where the conversation was headed. My mind dipped back to his Tinder profile, its performed coolness—the slightly puckered

portrait, a well-abluted face burnished by dusk. Was he trying to contrive rapport between us based on some algebra teacher’s humiliation? I started walking this time, and he trailed me obediently. But then I recalled a moment from our eighth-grade outdoor ed trip, which had came together at a hostel in the shadow of a lighthouse. On our second night at the hostel, just as we were settling down for the night, I padded down the hall from my room to Tobias’ room, where a few of my friends were staying. He and I, as always, sat suspended in the no man’s land between acquaintance and friendship. And yet it was Tobias, shirtless and flushed from just having showered, who invited me to sit on his plastic-covered bunk. There were still droplets of moisture on his shoulders and upper arms. Most of us had raw pink streaks running from ankle to toe after a long day of wetsuit-clad kayaking in the Bay, but Tobias’ feet showed only slight discoloration. I stared at them enviously as I tried not to scratch my own. In the stuffiness of that room, with its threadbare wall-to-wall carpeting, Tobias and his three roommates experimented with vulgar banter unlike any I’d heard before, despite the fact—perhaps unbeknownst to them—that Father Fischer was lodging immediately next-door. When one of them sauntered into the bathroom for his shower, loudly advertising his detailed plans to jerk off now that he’d been granted some privacy, Father Fischer appeared in the doorway. We all fell silent, except for the masturbator, who naturally kept blabbering until the chaplain crossed between us and knocked pointedly on the bathroom door. Tobias’ and my eyes met, the two of us mirror images of one another, four legs outstretched in a row on his lower bunk, and when Father Fischer turned around, I could tell that he’d seen something unusual pass between us. Feeling myself reddening, I took this as confirmation that something unusual had, in fact, passed between us. The father was, after all, omniscient. “Sorry, Padre,” one of the other boys said. The chaplain ignored him in the same serene manner that he ignored miscreants during grace. “Mr. Engel,” he said instead to me. “Is this your room?” “No,” I said. “That’s all right,” he said, nodding his head toward the door. “You get to be spared from the chat I’m about to have with these gentlemen.” I felt Tobias’ gaze pinned to me as I made my sheepish escape. Father Fischer had let me off easy, in spite—or perhaps because—of what he’d pinpointed between Tobias and me, even amid the homosocial hotbed that was all-boys elementary school. And unlike Mr. Brunetti, the chaplain wasn’t even gay—at least to my knowledge. The teachers knew about much more than their subjects, much more than we gave them credit for. Tobias started down the aisle and I followed him until he slid into a random pew. I decided to sit closer than necessary to him, so that if something was fated to happen, I’d follow it to its end. The Hymnal 1982 bowed toward us on its rack, its azure almost electric. It was my turn to steer the conversation, and I was still thinking about the lighthouse. “You remember that trip we took? For eighth-grade outdoor ed?” “Only one worth remembering.” “For real.” The school spent formidable resources on their nascent graduates’ outdoor ed, while the younger grades suffered miserable episodes in remote locales, sponging dishes with ice-cold water and feigning sleep in moldy tents. “I was just thinking about how we walked out to those tidepools. Those anemones we were so evil to.” “Anemones?” Tobias said. “Yeah, the anemones,” I said. “There were whole bunches of them. Like, ten or twelve in one place. And you figured out you could make them shrivel up and squirt water if you threw a rock at them. Big rocks, you know.” I showed him with my hands. “Me?” Tobias chuckled. “Definitely not me.” “No, I remember. You started it, and of course we all followed suit.” “Of course?” His tensed shoulders challenged me to explain my meaning, but when he saw I had no such intention, he smiled and coyly shook his head. “Too cruel to be me.” “Sure it was cruel. But we were all doing it. It was cool to see. I mean, it didn’t really register that they were actually living, or animals at least.” I remembered how Father Fischer had approached us and established, reprovingly, that we were being kind to God’s creatures. “They 23

kind of looked like seaweed,” I said, “attached to the rock like that, out in the open because the tide was low.” Tobias didn’t say anything. When I looked over, both his rows of perfect teeth were showing. “Are you laughing at me?” I said. “You’re a poet,” he said. “You’re laughing at me.” “Not at all. It’s kind of hot,” Tobias said. It was my turn to laugh. The sentiment was so unexpected, and yet what he’d been leaning toward all afternoon. As if to emphasize this, he scooted closer to me on the pew cushion. I forced myself to return his gaze, if a little suspiciously. I was trying desperately not to play a part. I had to subvert his expectations. “What’s going on,” I said. This seemed to catch him off-guard. “We’re just hanging out in Meacham Chapel,” he said. We were both performing, I knew. “Taking a trip down memory lane.” I laughed again, lacking an alternative. Memory lane, it seemed, was anything but a lane. It was sooner a stained-glass window, dually penetrable yet opaque from without, the light it distorted deceptively gorgeous from within. I hardly knew who Tobias was, or even who he had been. “Come here,” Tobias said, taking my neck in his hand. I tensed in its grip, glancing around for any lonely souls looming in the recesses of the chapel. But it was only us, had been since Tobias had arrived. Enough with the pretense, his cupped hand said. “Here?” I said, but I was already letting him pull me closer, knotting his breath to my breath, hooking our lips together. I didn’t give in at first. I forced my eyes open, didn’t let his tongue turn me like a key in its lock. After a stubborn moment, he took the hint and gave me space to breathe, silken strands of spittle stretching between us and giving way to their own weight. His hand was still at the top of my spine, warm now, cradling me like a book. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not down for.” He was too close to look at. I smiled with my eyes closed and he entered into that smile with his, startling me, but then my smile broadened and I realized it was what I had always wanted. I had had something like it once before, an aborted kiss in a classmate’s kitchen at a party, and I’d treasured it till now, foolishly, the moment suddenly seeming contrived or even desperate, a drunken grope in the dark. And wasn’t there something to be said, something unsaid often enough, for what this was instead—a sober circumnavigation through the light? But as Tobias’ teeth ground into my lower lip, I was disquieted by the realization of exactly what light we were in—the chaste daylight of a chapel in midafternoon. I knew Tobias had chosen it for its exposure, its delicious sacrilege, and I almost pulled away, disgusted with the taste of him, or with the taste of myself in him. I felt what I hadn’t been able to pin down in his profile, that he was the type to seek a perverse liberation in this, the reduction of the divine to dogma, to snap a salacious selfie of a silver Cross against his sternum. He had never been closer to God than I, despite his choral station. Beneath his seduction stirred a reckless betrayal. But then I began to think of all that had taken place in Meacham Chapel, from convocation to commencement, Chapel to Hymn-Sing, the annual Blessing of the Animals we loved so well. I began to think that the way we were leaning into each other was beautiful, like the names of sacred things are beautiful: the nave for the way its rafters resemble the skeleton of a ship, the sanctuary for the way its inhabitants ought to be held. The awkward sounds of one tongue finding another, of our four lips adjusting against the teeth behind them, was not a new song, but an old song whose middle verse we had always skipped. We were now blessing the place which had long blessed us. We had turned our entire lengths toward one another when Tobias reached for and fumbled at the button of my khakis. It was now that I sensed imminent danger, acidic compared to the vague moral peril I’d staved off seconds earlier, and I brought my hand down to steady his, not yet pushing it away. I separated my mouth from his just enough to catch my breath. “I don’t know,” I whispered. “Don’t worry,” Tobias said. 24

There was no logic in which to poke holes. I had nothing in my throat worth saying aloud. So I guided him through the buttonhole, down the path of the zipper. Before I knew it, he was peeling back my waistband, holding me in the palm of his hand. He did this without looking, without his lips leaving mine. As Tobias exposed my stiff nakedness to all of Meacham Chapel, I shivered slightly, so slightly that I could believe he hadn’t noticed. I was only a little cold; I didn’t care anymore if someone saw; at this point the deed had been done. But just as he shifted his torso fully onto mine, attempting to straddle my legs, he pulled his face away to reveal a thick cloud of red on the cleft between his nose and upper lip. “Oh shit,” Tobias said, cupping a hand to his face as in a pantomime of shock. I instinctively looked around for someone to admonish him for swearing in church. “Fuck,” he said beside me, pulling his hand away to look at it. “Fuck.” “What is it?” I said. “Nosebleed.” “Oh,” I said, coming to my senses. “Oh.” I tucked myself into my underwear, buttoned my khakis, and stood up. After an awkward moment, I offered my hand to him and he pulled himself to standing. “Let’s get you to a bathroom,” I said. My arm was draped weirdly across his shoulders as we stumbled into the aisle in search of an exit. “The rectory,” Tobias said, hunching his back as we walked and pinching the base of his nose, which dripped crimson intermittently onto the burgundy carpeted floor. I realized I didn’t know if he was correctly stemming the blood, that there seemed to be a common misconception I couldn’t recall. I felt something warm on my face, and when I reached up to touch it, he turned to me. “It’s on you too,” Tobias said. “Don’t touch it. Just wait until we’re there.” I was barely cognizant of our surroundings as Tobias led me underground into the men’s room that adjoined the apse of the church. It was only when we arrived before the mirror that I caught up with the recent past. There was blood leaking out of his nose—the same blood that was on my cheek. His blood was on my cheek, and then it was on my hands. Tobias looked at my fingers, and then at my face, through the mirror. “You should’ve seen the other guy,” he said. “Ha ha,” I said, but as Tobias’ lips cracked, my affected laughter melted into true laughter, and he reached playfully for the gore on my cheek, as if to wipe his blood away with his bloodier fingers. He snapped his chin skyward a few times, assuming an attitude somewhere between that of a devout Christian invoking Heaven and a schoolyard bully daring you to throw hands. He let the red liquid curl over his upper lip and stain his ivory teeth. He was so close that I could smell the iron in his blood. “Go on,” he said. “Touch it.” As if to demonstrate, he gently painted the skin below my cheekbone with the pad of his right thumb. I raised my own thumb, feeling more ridiculous than reluctant, and pressed it to the tenderness above his lip. The breath from his mouth, possibly exaggerated in its labor, was hot against my wrist. Without adjusting his body or gaze whatsoever, Tobias reached behind himself and drew an accordion of paper towels from the dispenser. I bunched one of them in my hand and dabbed the blood dutifully while he resumed pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, this is such a sitcom,” he whispered. This, maybe, was what I had come for—not the dapple-lit sanctuary, but the subterranean lavatory, with its quieter transgression. Tobias had bled for me, and I had bled with him. “Well, well, well,” intoned a man’s voice from above, or rather behind, and when I saw its source, I nearly shot into the air, my hand grazing Tobias’ nose as it flung aside, clearly hurting him. It was none other than Father Fischer leaning calmly against the threshold, like a caryatid or an apparition, the door propped permanently open behind him, just like that of the church itself. “Father Fischer!” I wheezed. The chaplain hadn’t aged a day in four years, his white hair sheared close, hands showing their familiar folds. His wisdom had always been reinforced by his agelessness, or rather his ossification within some single elusive age. His starched collar showed just beneath his Adam’s apple, while the rest was buttoned over by the familiar threadbare shirt. I strained to imagine the scene he had seen from his

vantage point, how long he’d watched without his former students taking notice. “I’ll be darned,” he finally said, “if it isn’t my two best boys from the Class of ’16!” “Sorry we’re in your bathroom,” Tobias said through the wad of industrial paper he now held to his face. I looked at him, a little panicked, but he failed to return my gaze. It was as if we were schoolboys again. “No need to apologize,” said the father, rising to his full height, relying upon the jamb no longer. As in the old days, his every utterance reeked of consequence, like the sour scent of paraffin out in the sanctuary. I spotted the blue of The Hymnal, of all things, tucked beneath his arm. “A nosebleed, it looks like? Calls for the utmost urgency.” “Thank you,” Tobias said. He didn’t look at all uneasy. “While your friend is cleaning up,” the chaplain said to me, “would you mind sharing what brings you two gentlemen here today?” “We haven’t really been in touch,” I said; it came out sharper than I’d have liked. My ears burned as I remembered how we’d reunited. “It was Tobias’ idea, actually. To come back and visit, look around and stuff.” “For old times’ sake,” Tobias said. Why did he keep saying that? What about new times; what about their sake? “Well, I’m just closing up shop myself,” said Father Fischer. “Take your time, of course.” Tobias removed the towels from his face; the trickle seemed to have slowed. “Your fly,” the chaplain said, pointing at my crotch. “Oh, jeez,” I said, hastily zipping myself shut. “Sorry about that.” I braced for the chaplain’s glance, the same sympathetic sign he’d given me four years prior in Tobias’ room at the lighthouse. But when I looked up, Father Fischer squinted his eyes—a couple of rapid blinks. His glance at the hostel paled in comparison to the wink he was trying to dispatch now, its brevity and surety somehow comforting. It was as if we could all be men now, as if a window had swung ajar and circulated new air through the room. He hadn’t seen, or had seen very little, and yet he believed. “Tell you what, boys,” he said, producing the hymnal from his armpit. Perhaps he’d recognized my embarrassment and charitably changed the subject. “I haven’t quite settled on a hymn for Monday Chapel yet. Why don’t I let you do the honors and pick one yourselves?” “Really?” Tobias said. “Alright,” I said. I was trying to gauge how Father Fischer’s observation had changed his interaction with us. “Have at it,” the chaplain said to Tobias, exposing the veins of his pale wrist as he extended his arm to him. Tobias eagerly took the hymnal in his hands. He leafed through it as I watched, pretending to yield out of mercy for the nosebleed. In truth, I was suspicious of the chaplain’s kindness, especially toward Tobias, who’d easily welcomed him in. “How about 209?” Tobias said. It was the one he’d paused at earlier. He was so tall now that he had to look down to meet the chaplain’s eyes. Father Fischer peered at the open book. “We Walk By Faith,” he read, “And Not By Sight. That’s right—you were a choirboy, you! It’s been ages since anyone’s asked for this one.” I had to consciously stop my eyes from rolling. “It’s great to see you, Father Fischer,” I said. “Yeah, what an honor,” Tobias said, taking my hint, gesturing toward the book with his bloodied towels before he discarded them in the bin by the door. “Sorry again about imposing,” I said. Father Fischer laid a hand on Tobias’ shoulder and a hand on mine, as if to bless us in lieu of Eucharist. His wedding ring dug into the tissue just above my shoulder blade. “You boys take care,” he said, giving each of us a short second with his gray-blue eyes. “Thanks,” I said. “You too,” Tobias said, and the two of us ascended the stairs to ground level. The nearest door opened onto a dim alley with garbage cans stationed along its length, their putridity guiding a path to the street. As if to compound the contrast with the world we’d exited, my vision was blurred by sunlight reflecting off the upper windows of buildings opposite us. When a fly brushed my ear, I exhaled dramatically. “Something wrong?” Tobias said, appearing beside me on the sidewalk.

“Sorry,” I said. I briefly considered a fall-from-grace analogy as explanation, but then I remembered how long we’d stared at Adam and Eve. If I vocalized the thought, the allusion would become too apt. Tobias narrowed his eyes at me. “You apologize too much.” I was about to apologize for it, but then I caught myself. He saw it on my face as I looked away from him, up and down the street, and he smiled. “How are you getting home?” I said, needing something to say. “Just like that?” Tobias said. “I don’t know. This was kind of a lot.” Tobias laughed. “I’m not asking you to start a relationship.” “I know,” I said. “For the record, I did like this, despite the bloodshed.” “I liked it too, despite the bloodshed.” “Good,” I said. It was good; I meant it. “But I do, unfortunately, have to get home.” “Car?” He guessed. “Bus.” “I see.” “I have my license.” “I wasn’t doubting.” “Okay.” The two of us faced each other. I was reminded, yet again, of the hostel by the lighthouse, of his two legs and my two legs on the plasticwrapped mattress. “I was going to offer you a ride,” Tobias said, “but I guess you wouldn’t want to impose.” He was tasting my language, teasing it asunder. I wasn’t offended, though. “Maybe next time,” I said, walking backward up the hill. “Alright, Elliott. Talk soon.” He’d seen me bypassing the improvisations of touch. He turned his back and I did the same, tossing a “bye” over my shoulder in place of an apology. As I walked up the block, my neck felt naked, but the nakedness was a benediction, I felt, a sign of the body’s intrinsic yearning to mend. At the bus stop, I was alone, my eyes drifting between the screen that blinked arrival times and the evening that had broken overhead. Standing there in the shadow of Meacham Chapel, I realized that the smell of Tobias lingered on me, and I felt myself start to vibrate, as if plucked by a massive finger, though I couldn’t see myself shaking when I held up my hand. A kind of soundless music, I thought, smiling much too broadly for someone by himself on the street—and then, once I realized it, smiling broader still.

HANNAH BAMBACH

Play or Script | Booker T. Washington High School for the Performing and Visual Arts, Dallas, TX

Home Town Prologue Lights up on KONRAD on one side of the stage, dressed down. He holds a letter in his hands. KONRAD Dearest Friend, It has been only a month since you left, but it feels like a lifetime. I certainly hope you didn’t forget your German. You know I’m lousy at English. (Pause) How is England, anyway? You’ll have to write me back and tell me if your mother recognized you. Do tell her I’m sorry about your hair...I’m still baffled as to how the headmaster trusted us with candles in the dorms, though I do think the burnt fringe suits you. I hope you can understand most of the German in this letter. If not, I will gladly resend it in English, however much I’d like you to be able to read fluently. Please write soon. Yours, Konrad Bergmann. Lights down on KONRAD and up on OLIVER on the other side of the stage. He is dressed down as well, holding a letter of his own. OLIVER Bergmann, you will not believe how dreary it has been without your company. I miss Germany terribly. Mum has been busy with the baby, so my father and I have been forced to spend much more time together. He tells me stories of the war, stories of how he climbed through the trenches with a rifle in hand and a rusty medal in his breast pocket. I don’t think I’d like fighting very much. You know how squeamish I am. I’m longing to visit you and the others, but I don’t think that will happen for a long time, as father says he’s worried about sending me back. Perhaps you could visit during the summer, after the second term. Thankfully, I still understand German, though it may sound more broken the next time we meet. I hope that is sooner than later. Yours, Oliver Davies. Lights down on OLIVER. End of Prologue. Act I Lights up on a military camp tent, clearly many years later. OLIVER and LORRAINE enter, hand in hand and giggling. Once the two are sure they are alone, they share a kiss. OLIVER

I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you too. It’s so horrible when you’re away.

LORRAINE

OLIVER Well I’m here now, aren’t I? I won’t be sent out again for another few days. LORRAINE

That’s far too soon. I thought my sparse appearances were part of my charm. Not when I never see you at all, Oliver. (Playfully) ‘Lance Corporal Davies’ to you.

OLIVER LORRAINE OLIVER

LORRAINE laughs, grabbing OLIVER by the collar of his coat to kiss him again. When she pulls away, she notices a letter sticking out of his breast pocket. (Waving the letter in OLIVER’S face) And what’s this, hm?

LORRAINE

As OLIVER protests, LORRAINE unfolds the letter eagerly. ‘For a friend, from the other side.’ How passionate. 26

LORRAINE

OLIVER

Lorraine, you really don’t have to-

LORRAINE (Cutting him off ) “Though you and I are far in distance, our souls haven’t spent a moment apart. The pain of leaving yours behind is far too great. Every hour that passes by without you here is wasted, and I find myself lying awake, trying to remember the creases in your face and the softness of your smile. I hope these dreams become a reality soon. Yours, Oliver Davies.” LORRAINE lowers the letter with a smile on her face. LORRAINE

You wrote this? OLIVER nods.

LORRAINE Oh, this is just the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard! You never say these sorts of things to me when we’re together. OLIVER (Hesitantly) I suppose I’ve been too dazzled by your beauty to come up with the words. LORRAINE You’ve more than made up for it. When were you planning on giving this to me? OLIVER

I hadn’t really thought about it.

LORRAINE

(Chuckling) It’s lucky I found it then.

OLIVER (Smiling nervously) Very lucky. Though, I’d like it back, actually. LORRAINE

Sorry? I...wanted to add something to it. It isn’t quite finished.

OLIVER LORRAINE

Not quite finished?

OLIVER

I want to make it more personal.

LORRAINE (Handing OLIVER the letter) Will I see the final version next time? OLIVER (Putting the letter back in his breast pocket) Absolutely. By then, it will be perfect. LORRAINE Oliver, what do you say the two of us stay in here, right here in this tent? OLIVER

What, until Thursday?

LORRAINE

Why not?

OLIVER

Because I’ve got obligations, haven’t I? (Sadly) It’s just nice to think about, that’s all.

LORRAINE

OLIVER grasps LORRAINE’S hands. OLIVER Lorraine, when I come back next, I’ll be here a week. Maybe two, even. You promise you will? I promise I’ll try.

LORRAINE OLIVER The two share a last kiss.

LORRAINE I’m needed at base in just a moment. Same place tomorrow? OLIVER

Same place tomorrow.

LORRAINE exits. OLIVER takes the letter and a writing utensil out of his breast pocket. He speaks aloud as he writes. OLIVER P.S, Though it has been ages since I sent you a letter entirely in English, I feel that our language captures the beauty of words far better than yours does. Try not to take offense, Konrad. He folds the letter up, placing it into the envelope, and scrawls something onto the front. Letter in hand, OLIVER exits. Lights down. End of Act I. Act II Lights up on KONRAD, ECKARD, and VOGEL sitting in the grass. ECKARD and VOGEL are chatting as KONRAD sits beside them, reading a distressed paperback. VOGEL

She should have written by now.

ECKARD You said just yesterday that Ruth has been taking care of the boys all on her own. That doesn’t give her much time to write, does it? VOGEL

I don’t think she’s on her own.

ECKARD

Bergmann, tell him he’s being absurd.

KONRAD doesn’t look up from his book. ECKARD

Bergmann!

KONRAD

(Looking up) Hm?

ECKARD

How are you still reading that?

KONRAD

I’ve finished it twice. And you haven’t considered starting something else?

VOGEL KONRAD

(Quietly) It’s a good book.

ECKARD

Must be.

ECKARD leans over and snatches the book out of KONRAD’S hands. What does he have scribbled in the margins? Just notes.

VOGEL KONRAD

ECKARD Your handwriting is horrible, Bergmann. Looks like a kid wrote it. How long have you had that? I don’t know, a couple years.

VOGEL KONRAD

ECKARD (To VOGEL) Listen, right above this paragraph: This reminds me of the rooftops we used to climb onto at dusk. KONRAD reaches for the book, but ECKARD pulls his arm back.

We? Did you write these notes for someone else?

ECKARD

KONRAD It’s a book from when I was a kid. The notes are from a friend. VOGEL

Explains the handwriting.

ECKARD tosses KONRAD the book. GENERAL MANSTEIN enters, holding a stack of letters. GENERAL MANSTEIN

Eckard and Bergmann?

ECKARD and KONRAD

General.

GENERAL MANSTEIN hands each soldier their letter. VOGEL looks up at the General hopefully. GENERAL MANSTEIN

None today, Vogel.

VOGEL nods, somewhat sadly. GENERAL MANSTEIN (Gesturing to KONRAD’S letter) Your sister’s still in England? KONRAD

She is, sir.

GENERAL MANSTEIN Tell her to hurry back. Not a good time to be anywhere but Germany right now. KONRAD

Yes, sir.

GENERAL MANSTEIN Right. (To ECKARD and KONRAD) I’ll see the two of you at sundown. (Turning to VOGEL) Vogel? VOGEL

General?

GENERAL MANSTEIN

Let’s take a walk.

VOGEL stands up apprehensively. GENERAL MANSTEIN leads the way and the two walk offstage. ECKARD turns to face KONRAD. ECKARD

What’s your sister doing in England? (Sticking his letter in his front coat pocket) Visiting family.

KONRAD ECKARD

In England? She’s thinking about doing her studies there.

KONRAD

ECKARD I think the General might be right in encouraging her to hurry back. KONRAD She seems to be doing well. Unless it’s absolutely necessary I doubt she’ll return soon. ECKARD My sister doesn’t write anymore. Mama says she’s too busy with her lessons and her books. Oh. I’m sorry.

KONRAD

ECKARD (Holding up his letter) The others still write. Not from England, though. You’re probably the only one here who gets international post. VOGEL enters with a grim expression on his face. He hesitates before speaking.

VOGEL

I’m going home for a while.

Lights down. End of Act II. Act III Lights up on LORRAINE, sitting on a makeshift bed, looking around expectantly. After a moment, WESLEY enters the tent. WESLEY I’m sorry to make you wait, I must’ve gotten caught up in discussion. LORRAINE frowns. WESLEY

Is something wrong?

LORRAINE Of course something’s wrong. Why would I ask you to meet me here alone? WESLEY

I s’pose I didn’t thinkOliver’s seeing someone behind my back. (Sitting down beside LORRAINE on the bed) Pardon?

LORRAINE WESLEY

LORRAINE He’s seeing someone! Someone in Germany. And it gets worse. It’s...oh Wesley, it’s so terrible. The person he’s seeing, I mean. WESLEY

Christ.

LORRAINE And what am I meant to do, hm? Wait for him to come back from every mission and greet him with a kiss and a warm smile? WESLEY How do you know he’s seeing someone? What if he’s writing to a friend? LORRAINE

You haven’t seen the letters.

LORRAINE reaches a hand into her coat pocket, pulling out a handful of folded up letters. She hands the one on top to WESLEY. LORRAINE

Look who it’s addressed to.

WESLEY

“Dearest…” Perhaps a relative?

LORRAINE

Don’t make me laugh.

WESLEY Why did you ask me here? Why not Oliver? You have the proof; you’ve got it right in your hands. LORRAINE I want to expose the bastard. Wes, you have always been a friend to me. Would you help guide me through this dreadful time? If you’re asking me to turn on one of my ownAll I ask is that you read them. That’s all I want you to do.

WESLEY LORRAINE

LORRAINE hands WESLEY the remainder of the letters. WESLEY skims the rest of the first, moving to the next letter and stopping abruptly. WESLEY

Hang on, he calls this girl ‘my love’ ? Keep reading. Skip to the bottom of the next letter.

LORRAINE

WESLEY reads, then pauses before speaking.

WESLEY “I can’t wait to see your enchanting smile again...Yours with love, Oliver.” Lorraine, it does sound very troubling. He continues to read the letters. Konrad? He calls this woman Konrad?

WESLEY

LORRAINE No! Jesus, no. Don’t you see? He’s sending love letters to a man, Wesley. A man. A man in Germany, no less. WESLEY

He’s aYes! And I’m meant to pretend like he isn’t.

LORRAINE WESLEY

Someone should tell the General.

LORRAINE

Why don’t you?

WESLEY And how am I supposed to have known? He’ll think I’m one of them. LORRAINE

What a ridiculous thing to say.

WESLEY I can’t risk that, Lorraine. I won’t be the one to tell General Allfrey, but I can help you tell the others. OLIVER enters. WESLEY and LORRAINE whip around. OLIVER What are the two of you doing here? Lorraine, what is this? LORRAINE

We know, Olly. We’ve read your smut.

OLIVER

What are you-

WESLEY raises the letter above his head, waving it. WESLEY

Konrad, Davies?

OLIVER freezes, looking horrified. WESLEY You think you can serve your country honorably? We’ve slept beside each other before, Oliver! It’s against God’s word. What about me, Olly? Did you not once think of me?

LORRAINE OLIVER

I-

LORRAINE

Save it, yeah? I just-I can’t. I can’t.

LORRAINE exits, visibly upset. WESLEY She has every right to tell more people than just me, you know. She could be going to Allfrey right now. OLIVER So I’m done, then? You’ll have me detained for writing to a friend? A friend? That’s some way to put it. What do you want?

WESLEY OLIVER

WESLEY Me? I’m going to be on a mission tomorrow. This isn’t about me. It’s about the little miss sunshine who just ran off. If I were to stand in for you tomorrow-

OLIVER

WESLEY

Done.

OLIVER

So it’s that simple, is it?

WESLEY I can’t promise you Lorraine’s allegiance, but you’re my brother in this. You give me a week at base, I keep my mouth shut. We all have families to stay alive for, Davies. WESLEY exits, leaving OLIVER in the middle of the room, dumbfounded. Lights down. End of Act III. Act IV Lights up on KONRAD and GENERAL MANSTEIN, both outdoors amidst the bustle of surrounding soldiers. KONRAD

Vogel is what?

GENERAL MANSTEIN You took an oath when joining the army, didn’t you? That oath stands for brotherhood. KONRAD General, with full respect, I can’t go on a mission I haven’t prepared for. Don’t you tell us how dangerous it is to spring into something without foresight? Which is why I’m telling you now, Bergmann.

GENERAL MANSTEIN KONRAD

SirWhy do you think I asked you and not Eckard?

GENERAL MANSTEIN KONRAD

Sir, I don’t-

GENERAL MANSTEIN Because you have the capability to spring into this without foresight. You’ve got a lot to offer, Corporal. KONRAD doesn’t respond. GENERAL MANSTEIN I take it you and Vogel are friends. I’m sorry he didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. KONRAD

I didn’t expect him to. Right, well...death is something I don’t take lightly.

GENERAL MANSTEIN

KONRAD snickers. (Frowning) Have you got something to say?

GENERAL MANSTEIN

KONRAD General, you’re running an army. We go into battle not fearing death, but expecting it. GENERAL MANSTEIN If your wife was on the brink of death, I’d send you home in a heartbeat. Yes, we see death almost daily, but those who don’t have hundreds of brothers by their side deserve to have at least one last moment with a loved one. KONRAD stays silent again. GENERAL MANSTEIN She has a week. I’m allowing Vogel two weeks leave. By the time you return, he will take your place in March’s battle. You misunderstand my issue with this, sir. Then explain.

KONRAD GENERAL MANSTEIN

KONRAD I will gladly serve in a brother’s place. My concerns lie in the location of the mission, not the nature of it.

GENERAL MANSTEIN

The location?

KONRAD We would leave at sundown. As you’re aware, General, crossing English enemy lines at night has proven dangerous. And have you not fought the English before? I wasn’t on the January mission.

GENERAL MANSTEIN KONRAD

GENERAL MANSTEIN Talk to Meier about his experience. I assure you, Konrad, you will be more than fine. If I thought you couldn’t handle it I wouldn’t have asked you to go. GENERAL MANSTEIN turns to leave. General-

KONRAD

GENERAL MANSTEIN That’s quite enough! You’re a man, aren’t you? Don’t you want to fight for your country? For our leader? Yes, but-

KONRAD

GENERAL MANSTEIN As I have said before, you took an oath. Good evening, Bergmann. GENERAL MANSTEIN exits. Lights go down. End of Act IV. Act V Lights up on OLIVER, positioned behind some shrubbery-or perhaps a rockwith a rifle in hand. He begins to sing “Home Town” by Flanagan and Allen under his breath. OLIVER I can see a bunch of small town hicks, squatting round the local flora, whittling sticks, in my hometowOLIVER freezes, caught off-guard by a rustling from off-stage. After a moment, OLIVER continues to sing. OLIVER In my hometown, why did I ever roam town, I must be crazy… Hesitantly, OLIVER starts to move forward. Oi! Stay back. Wait a moment.

OFFSTAGE VOICE OLIVER takes a couple steps back. The only sounds heard are the rustling of the trees in the far distance.

OFFSTAGE VOICE We’ve almost got a clear sight of them. You head ‘round back, yeah Davies? OLIVER moves around the shrub-or rock, maybe-and aims his pistol from across the stage. He shoots, and the sound echoes through the battlegrounds. OFFSTAGE VOICE You’re going to notify the whole bloody army of where we are! What are you, mad? I thought I saw one. Well, you didn’t. (From across stage) There! Back there! Fall back! Fall back!

OLIVER OFFSTAGE VOICE OPPOSITE OFFSTAGE VOICE OFFSTAGE VOICE The sound of running soldiers is heard as OLIVER’S army moves to another location. OLIVER remains where he is, ducking, pistol still pointed outward.

OLIVER (Continuing his song under his breath) Though the city girls are not so slow, take me to the corn-fed girls I used to know… OPPOSITE OFFSTAGE VOICE

You take left, I’ll go forward.

OLIVER lowers himself so he’s almost lying on the ground beneath him. He stays here, breathing heavily as the sounds of the trees rustling grow nearer. OPPOSITE OFFSTAGE VOICE

You! Wagner! Take the back end.

OLIVER (Almost in a whisper) I’m pinin' night and day for that old-time new mown hay… OPPOSITE OFFSTAGE VOICE

Go in now!

OLIVER straightens up, cocking his rifle and adjusting his stance for a clear shot. From across the stage, KONRAD carefully enters, hiding behind a shrub, or perhaps a rock. He too is holding a rifle. OLIVER fires, one shot, then two, missing KONRAD. In his stress and carelessness, OLIVER begins to sing a bit louder than before, perhaps to calm the nerves. Home town, want to wander round your backstreets-See your tumbledown old shack streets…

OLIVER KONRAD

OLIVER stiffens, aware of the voice singing back from across the field. Cautiously, he continues the verse. I'm going back to see those corny, country-Cousins of mine…

OLIVER KONRAD

Bewildered, OLIVER leaps up from behind the bush, rifle in hand but no longer pointed outwards. KONRAD, upon seeing OLIVER, slowly rises from his hiding spot, visibly at a loss for words. The two lock eyes. OLIVER drops his rifle. (Mouthing, silently) Konrad.

OLIVER A gun is fired from offstage. Shocked, the two men turn towards the direction of the shot. The running footsteps of OLIVER’S men are heard as OLIVER hastens to retrieve his fallen weapon. KONRAD ducks as soon as the footsteps of the enemy are heard.

OFFSTAGE VOICE What in Jove’s name are you still doing here? They’ve circled us, we’ve got to go back around. IWhat? You see something?

OLIVER OFFSTAGE VOICE OLIVER stands still, looking in KONRAD’S direction.

No. I just heard gunshots. Then bloody hell, come on!

OLIVER OFFSTAGE VOICE OLIVER shakes his head.

(To himself, quietly) C-can’t. Davies!

OLIVER OFFSTAGE VOICE OLIVER backs away, eyes still on the spot he last saw KONRAD, and exits the stage. KONRAD rises from his crouching position, stunned. He takes a couple

steps forward before falling to his knees, dropping his rifle beside him. The lights fade out slowly on this image. End of Play.

DAW N BA N G I Photography | Oakton High School, Vienna, VA

Trilla Tri-X 400 120 Film 2020 36

Trinidee Tri-X 400 120 Film 2019 37

JULIANNA BARRENOS Design Arts | Fairfax High School, Los Angeles, CA

City Scape Computer and paper printer/Illustrator 2019 38

3D Object Modeling Grid Computer/Keynote 8 and Grasshopper 2019 39

JEBREEL BESSISO Design Arts | Design and Architecture Senior High School, Miami, FL

RAM ProMaster Pod (Final Board) Procreate (digital sketches and final render), Vectornator (diagrams, logo design, and layout) 2020 40

RAM ProMaster Pod (Objective Page and Sketches) Scanned pen sketches on paper, Procreate (digital sketches), Vectornator (layout) 2020 41

AIDEN BLAKELEY Photography | Francis Parker School, San Diego, CA

Father and Son Photographic film 2020 42

Begging Man Photographic film 2020 43

D A N A B L AT T E Poetry | Sharon High School, Sharon, MA

Etiology of Tongues “And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech.” - Genesis 11:1-9 & it came to pass that we were stars -truck. See, we departed from the angle of the sun. Found brick & stone to build a city between our hands. Said let us make a name & twisted dirt into tower, sand into syllables, heaven into heritage. We were so close to touching the sky. So far from ground the flood narrative sloughed from our skulls. & it came to pass that our tongues angered God, our mouths too round & sharp in the sinful ways we shared our breaths. See, we found heaven but it did not want us: God blurred our names so we outsmarted the water & only stoned ourselves. The narrative shifted the tower & we closed into fists, twisted dirt into dust, sand into storm, heaven into harbinger. Bricks scattered bones, & we were so close to touching it all. Let us make a name, we said, but we got tongues instead. The floodgates opened & no water poured out, no city blurred the sky, no names to share our sins— & so it came to pass.

The Science of Peregrination We open

our hands into birds, set

needle fires just to coax

their truths. Think, little

dangers: the way we peel

back wings and deposit lumps of lavender. Here—

we flush our flames into eggs

-hells. Think, little

horrors: our bodies smiling

in a grave. Swallowing

the embers of a prickled lie. We close our hands and extinguish

every flower—sadistic, sophisticated, lacking any term. We churn out token truths just to feel weary,

weightless,

smoking in our eggshells, budding every fist. Wallowing

skies and sinews and all those skinny limbs. Our bodies, little dangers in the making., horror

after horror in a labyrinth gone flight-

risk. We are liminal—each reality

surrenders compass—finding, flying, faultline. This one not a kindling, nor lacking

any truth. Weightless, weary, there is no sallow rest:

we posit

our graves, plot the feathers, felling

every ash. Portrayal as a truth:

sorrow is still sorrow without open-

ing. Here—think smoky bruises and my hands:

the littlest of dangers.

SAMANTHA BOHNSACK Photography | Greens Farms Academy, Greens Farms, CT

Untitled Digital photography 2019 46

Untitled Digital photography 2020 47

E LY Z A B R U C E Short Story | Nonnewaug High School, Woodbury, CT

This Land They didn’t look like much at first, the drills. Just silhouettes speckling the distant horizon, inconspicuous as a flock of birds or a line of naked trees. In the wide, blue wake of the Wyoming mountains, Bierdstadt of the Rocky Mountain School of Art would have rendered them with the slightest brush of burnt umber against the cerulean glow of the clouds. An irrelevant nothingness outshined by the Indian yellow strokes forming the wild grass. Yet, Pete fixated on those dark shapes. Watched how they smeared the sky as the landscape swept behind the car window. How they seemed to float along the skyline, following him, no matter how far the Ford Ranger progressed down Arrowhead. Arrowhead was the only road through downtown Jefferson, shooting straight through the grassland to Shaw Ranch. Though, by all rights, Jefferson hadn’t much of a downtown at all, with only a diner, bar, grocer, gas station and a scattering of houses to its name. Pete had gone up and down Arrowhead half a billion times; even if he couldn’t say how many trees skirted the mountains or how many grouses dotted the sky, the image of the place was branded in his mind’s eye. He had been dreaming of home for months—when he was praying for dreamless sleep in the barracks of Afghanistan, the wide Wyoming landscape was painted in the darkness behind eyelids—but now that he was there, he knew something wasn’t right; he knew it in his bones. He spent the whole ride home from the Jackson Hole airport fermenting in silence, a cold feeling stirring in his belly. But it didn’t seem to bother his brother Logan; he spent most of the ride talking into his Bluetooth, only speaking to Pete to ask him to open the window or flip through the radio stations. Maybe the only thing the two of them could agree about was their love of Glen Campbell. You could imagine Pete’s surprise when he walked out of the airport terminal—the sand of Afghanistan clinging to his uniform; a roaring ache clawing inside him to see his Ma, to feel her arms around him, the smell of home on her clothes—only to find Logan. Slumped in a chair with long-legged ease, talking on the phone, laughter glowing in his eyes. He wore a button-up shirt and a shiny wristwatch, hair neatly combed. Pete didn’t recognize him at first; he looked like somebody important—bound for Chicago or London—not some hick headed for a backroad in the middle of nowhere. When Pete had last seen Logan, he had been all shaggy hair and faded t-shirts, his left eye purpled by Pete’s fist. Pete couldn’t remember what they had been fighting about, only that Logan had done a phone interview for the job in Houston with a bag of frozen peas held to his face, and Pete had boarded the plane to Fort Benning with bloody knuckles. As Pete approached, Logan shot him a cursory glance, talking for a minute longer before hanging up. A chill rippled down Pete’s spine as Logan’s eyes settled on him—they were Dad’s eyes, dark and glinting. “You came all this way?” was all Pete could think to say. Part of him was sure the vision of his brother was a mirage; he had been certain he would never see Logan again. Not since Logan had crawled down to Texas, a glossy Christmas card featuring a dyed-blond girlfriend and a corgi dog the only evidence of his existence. Logan smiled at Pete, but slowly, as if he had forgotten how. “Of course I did.” “Where’s Ma?” “She didn’t feel up for the drive.” 48

Pete and Logan never did have much to say to each other. Just clipped remarks and dirty looks and the occasional wrestle—well, Pete wrestled with his hands and slingshots and snowballs. Logan with snarks and gibes and shrewd smiles. As boys, when they would ride out to the fields to check the cattle, Pete would shoot something rustling the grass on the treeline, spooking the horses. He would miss, and Logan would call him a dumb hick with a flashing white smile. Pete, in turn, would shoot Logan off his saddle with his BB gun. The riderless horse would bolt toward the horizon as Logan groaned in the grass and cursed Pete out, the cattle flicking their tails in interest. Ma would ask what the hell happened, and Logan—scratched up, bruised and pretty-eyed—talked his way out of any blame, glossing over the “hick” bit in his rendition of the story. A cold, gnawing feeling stirred in Pete’s stomach as he faced this cleaner, richer version of his brother. Sixteen months had slipped through his fingers like water during deployment, yet so much had changed: Ma had laid off half of the hands at the ranch, Logan was working for an oil company in Houston, Dad was a jar of ashes in the ground and wind roared in Pete’s chest whenever he thought of home. “It’s good to see you,” Logan said, looking at Pete—at the uniform, the square jaw, the wary blue eyes, just like Ma’s, and the shadows staining the skin beneath them. Pete was staring at Logan—at his slicked hair, the freckled nose, his knowing smile. And the next moment, by some strange magic, Pete’s legs carried him toward Logan, arms wrapping around his brother’s shoulders of their own volition. As if he had been propelled by an inexorable momentum, as if a wind had carried him across the world to Wyoming to deliver him into Logan’s arms. A wind desperate to hear Ma’s voice, for the smell of home. But Logan stunk of cologne, his arms stiff around Pete’s shoulders. The hug was over as soon as it began, and Logan’s phone returned to his ear as they headed to the parking lot. Pete had expected Logan to be driving a sports car—some glittering silver thing with leather seats and a perpetual new smell. His knees buckled, stomach roiling, when he saw the 1983 Ford Ranger, red paint bleached orange, the inside smelling of earth and stale beer cans and cigarettes—of Dad. Pete propped his forehead against the window as Logan drove, the rattling and whirring of the Ranger singing him to sleep. Sometimes, his eyes would flutter open, vision clarifying as his gaze fell on those dark shapes lining the horizon, feeling as if he were being watched—as if a pair of black eyes was tracking the course of the Ranger, tracking him. As the Ranger neared the end of the Arrowhead road, Shaw Ranch materialized behind the windshield, rippling in the dying light like a mirage: a house with chipped white paint, a barn keeping watch over the cattle scattering the fields. Ma waited on the porch, looking like a ghost as the dust stirred by the tires whirled around her. When Pete stepped out of the truck, she nearly tripped down the steps before she threw herself into his arms, squeezing him so tight it was like she was holding him down. As if he would vanish into a cloud of dust if she let go. Words floated uselessly in Pete’s mind, none ever reaching his lips. She felt so small—her arms used to swallow him, he thought. Enveloping him with warmth and good feelings. She was thinner than he remembered, like she was sinking into her clothes. So at odds with the firm, steadfast woman who taught him good manners and how to ride

a horse. The woman who knew how to win an argument and pierce you with a glance. Doubt stirred in his stomach. It was strange to see the house, the barn and the mountains utterly unchanged and quiet—so quiet and serene—yet Ma looked paler, Logan cleaner, Dad a ghost, and him with deserts burning against his eyelids. “It’s good to see you Ma.” Pete’s voice sounded strange to him—far away, underwater. “It’s good to be home.” Ma’s blue eyes sparkled with tears as she touched his cheek, his nose, his ears, making sure it was all there. “Come inside now. I’ve got dinner ready” she said, patting his cheek before rushing into the house to set the table. While Logan headed to the hold of the Ranger, phone glued to his ear, Pete lingered at the porch steps, watching how his boots stirred the road dust, trying to find a wrinkle—a sign that he was in a dream. Any moment, he expected he would wake to a blazing desert sky above him, sand burning in his lungs, gunfire ringing in his ears. Pete closed his eyes, breathing in the wide Wyoming air, the sounds of the crickets and the wind through the grasses rooting him in place. I’m home. I’m home. I’m home. And with a sigh, he climbed the porch steps, disappearing into the house. The sky fell as Pete went to the pine tree out back, and the grave beneath it. The Indian Paintbrushes Ma had planted by the headstone quivered in the breeze, petals glowing vermillion in the orange and gold light of the dying day. Dad had been drunk, got in a fighting mood, but Ma always won their arguments. Refusing to accept his defeat, he stormed out of the house and rode into the mountains to do whatever angry men did when they were alone. It was pitch black, the sky spitting rain and rolling thunder. Ma waited for him all night, but as the flaring colors of dawn stained the sky, a spooked horse was all that returned. Pete could have asked for leave to attend the funeral a few months ago, but he didn’t. He never got a wink of sleep in the barracks, dreaming of dust and desperados and bullets and buffalo. And sometimes Dad would hover over his cot, eyes shadowed by the rim of his hat, loading his gun in that cool, careful way of his. Dropping in the bullets, magazines sliding into place. And the moment Pete heard the whisper of the safety disengaging, he would lurch from the dream, finding himself alone in the darkness. Part of Pete feared if he went home—when dad’s ghost was hanging heavy over the ranch—he wouldn’t wake up before Dad’s finger pressed the trigger. Pete sat by the grave for a long while. He didn’t speak to it though. He was thinking of a woman from a village outside Kabul, her clothes speckled white with dust, praying beside a body. Even though he didn’t understand her words, Pete had thought the prayer was like a song, like the roar of a wild wind. To do anything short of that seemed silly, and he had never been any good with words anyway. It wasn’t long until Logan’s shadow fell over him. They sat staring at the grave; the silence hung heavy in the air, weighing down the pine branches, needles fluttering over the headstone. “I know it ain’t right to say...” said Logan. He looked tired, his smiling ease hardening into stony-eyed resolve. “What?” Pete said. Despite everything, he was curious. “I’m glad he’s dead,” said Logan, lifting his head to the reddening sky. “Cause I won’t have to look into his eyes when he finds out about me.” Logan turned to Pete, dark eyes glinting in the fading light. Eyes just like Dad’s. A small, sad smile whispered on his lips. “I try...I try to remember those good times when he would take us out into the mountains, teaching us how to track and hunt. Telling us stories of grandpa when we were cookin’ our catch over the fire...Those times when he would play his guitar and it would put us to sleep, or when he and Ma danced in the family room...But I feel it Pete,” said Logan, voice wavering. “This weight is pressing on me all the time—like he’s watching me.” Pete sighed, a moment from years before weighing on their backs— as if the ghost was gripping their shoulders. Pete liked those times when the three of them would ride out into the wilds, because he and Logan never fought under Dad’s watchful gaze. It was just them and the mountains and the sky.

But one day, they found something strange. Logan had been twelve, Pete eight. It was the first time either of them had seen a dead body. Left by a stream, face swollen and blue. Blood oozing from the head, seeping thick into the rocks and mud. “What happened to him?” Logan asked, eyes wide. “That there is a faggot,” Dad said, his tone cool and firm. Like when he taught them how to load a gun. Or the proper way to slaughter an animal, his arms stained in blood up to elbows as he peeled the skin from the raw muscle and bone. “And that’s how God says faggots ought to be dealt with.” Spitting a black wad of chewing tobacco, Dad continued on the path, gun propped on his shoulder. “Come on now, the sun’s setting. Your ma will have supper ready.” But his boys lingered, staring at the body left by the stream. Days later, Ma mentioned over breakfast that she heard the Bells’ son had gone missing—the one who drove out to Jackson Hole an awful lot and had that funny way about him. Both boys turned to their Dad, faces pale. “Pass the salt, Logan, would ya,” was all Dad had to say. And now Dad was a pile of ashes in a jar, pine needles tumbling over him whenever the wind caught. He was a man swallowed by the gaping maw of a storm, as God said he ought to be dealt with. Pete dreamed of a desert village. Of clouds whirling against a blazing sky. Of a circle darkening the sand, gleaming red, bleeding like ink toward his boots. Of nails scratching his neck, his face— His eyes flew open. Pupils swelling to black wells as the dream faded. He leapt out of sweat-stained sheets to fumble with the blinds, panting like a hunted animal. He sighed as the sunlight warmed his face; there was only a pale blue sky and grazing cows on the other side of the window. Eventually, he mustered the courage to drag himself downstairs. Ma made bacon and toast, and while they ate, Logan and Ma talked about Houston—about the coffee shop beneath his apartment and the nice girl he met there. Pete didn’t hear any of it. He looked past Logan’s head, through the window over the kitchen sink, transfixed by the silhouettes staining the sky over the swaying tips of the wild grass. Pete squinted, jaw set. “What are those out there?” The table quieted. Logan and Ma stared at Pete. “What’s what?” Ma asked. Pete pointed, and they turned to the window. “What are those things out there?” Logan and Ma didn’t have to look; they already knew what was out there. A shadow of a smile whispered on Logan’s lips. “You haven’t told him.” “He deserved to be told in person!” Ma protested. Pete stiffened, eyes wide. “What the hell is this about?” “Pete,” Logan whispered, putting a hand on Pete’s shoulder—like he was calming a spooked horse. “Those are hydraulic fracking drills.” Pete shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about?” “They’re used to pump natural gas out of the ground Pete,” said Ma, reaching to touch his hand across the table. “Five months ago the Bells sold their land to the company,” said Logan, “and then the Allens and the Colemans.” A heat bubbled in Pete’s chest, face glowing red. “Why would they do that?” “They were offered a lot of money, Pete,” Ma said. Softly, as if it were a secret. “But how could they do that?” Pete searched their faces, wind roaring in his ears. “These families have been working this land for decades—a century. This land is ours—and they just sold it?” Logan’s face hardened, cold as marble—just like Dad when he led an animal to the shed out back, when there was a job to be done. “Pete, I’m going to be honest with you,” he said, “a month ago, Ma signed a contract to the same company.” 49

The air in the kitchen thickened in the silence, the truth settling over Pete like a furling fog. “This was you,” Pete said, his eyes fixed on Logan—on that cool, careless face. “Ma was left up here all alone after Dad died—" “This has nothing to do with me Pete. All the money is going to Ma—” “When Dad died and she was all alone up here, you were crouching down in Texas— “Guess what Pete?” said Logan, shaking his head. “I was making a living, while you were across the world doing God knows what—” “And you sold our home, Logan! This was Grandpa’s dream, Dad’s dream, our dream—” “That’s right Pete!” Logan cried, a mirthless smile twisting his lips. “All of this was just a dream! Who do you think we are, Pete? Who Dad was? A bunch of cowboys living on the free range?” He snorted, a cold, bitter sound. “You know better than that. Dad was just a poor rancher and a dirty alcoholic—and us? Well...” He shook his head. “It’s real rich of you to play the hero, Pete; I heard what kind of shit was going on out there—soldiers hunting people for sport. It’s your time for you to get your head out of the clouds and grow the fuck up so you can start being a man of this family—” Ma reached toward Logan, tears glittering in her eyes. “Logan that’s enough—” Logan shook her away, smiling to himself. “You act as if God himself gave us this land, Pete. But guess what? Our ancestors gunned the Indians off this land, because they could. Now, gas companies are gonna cover all of Wyoming with drills, because they can and they will—” Pete surged toward him, a blurring shape. Pete didn’t think, just moved. But Logan was quick—he had years of experience dodging Pete’s clumsy blows—and he ducked. Before Pete could raise another fist, hands were pulling him away. “C’mon, let’s get a breath of fresh air,” Ma said, guiding Pete out of the kitchen onto the porch. “C’mon let’s settle now, settle now.” Despite the fire blazing in his veins, Ma’s voice cooled him. Pete closed his eyes and willed the wind rattling in his ribs to calm, Ma’s hands on his shoulders rooting him in place. He kept his eyes averted—not meeting the black gaze peering at him from the horizon. And the moment Pete thought he had caught his breath, Logan slammed through the front door, eyes wide as moons. “Why don’t you hit me, Pete?” He bellowed, arms splayed toward the sky, “why don’t you fucking hit me?” “Logan, stop this,” Ma protested, moving to pull him back inside, but Logan held her away. “Why don’t you hit me Pete?” Logan said, a strange, sneering smile curling on his lips. “Why don’t you be a man and hit me?” Pete leveled his gaze at Logan—at the crisp collar; at the mirthless smile; the glinting, black eyes—and he ran for him. Grabbed Logan by the collar and threw him down the porch stairs. The road dust whirled where Logan landed, rippling into shapes and shadows. The shouts and gunfire of a desert village whirred in Pete’s ears as the body struggled beneath him. He vaguely felt teeth sinking into his arm, a knee slamming his gut, but he was somewhere else. As if he were watching from a distance, a disembodied ghost in the sky, as he slammed his fist into Logan’s nose. Into his eyes, until they went purple and blue. Until blood oozed out of the nostrils, running down Logan’s cheek, the droplets glowing like jewels in the dirt. There was a voice shouting his name, telling him to stop. But he couldn’t stop even if he tried; a hunger stirred in him. A hunger that flowed from the land, from the mountains looming over the little white house in the sea of dust and wild grass and drills. A hunger glinting in the black eyes that kept watch over Pete’s bed, methodically loading its gun. And the land savored Logan Shaw’s blood. Rejoiced and reveled in it as it seeped into the earthen darkness, where it thickened and refined, churned and fermented. Until it slicked black like ink, until it shimmered like gold.

R AQUEL BURIANI Design Arts | John A Ferguson Senior High School, Miami, FL

Gone with the Waste Bed sheets, lace curtain, garbage bags, coffee filters, paper doilies, grosgrain ribbon, window blinds, panel curtain, wire, plastic lid, crocheted plastic bags, artificial flowers, and velvet ribbon 2019 52

CHRISTIAN BUTTERFIELD Spoken Word | Bowling Green High School, Bowling Green, KY

lullaby “the first time ever i saw your face i thought the sun rose in your eyes” - Roberta Flack (1972); sung via portable boombox in St. Mary’s Hospital. my first sound was something gargled. lullabies have always been wasted on me, so my mother just wrapped me in her arms. she was all tear-soaked wrists and an exhausted grin. we cried out together, clinging to a kinship. my third-ever sentence was “no ketchup” a simple syntax, my candied tongue. my mother says this with a knowing grin and i know nothing but utility. i was a fork sans tines, a bent knife. language as a battering ram. my four hundred and eighty-sixth conversation was an act of canonization. my mother neatly informed me that my brain was wired differently. there is something to be said for lullabies, but i could only sleep wrapped up in my wires. my mother says this is a sensory thing. my two thousandth, seventy-second greeting was the death of the author. i dedicate myself to mastering narrative convention: an archetype, my battered lip. my mother weeps my nonverbal weep, tastes the explication on my breath. i think she makes quite a lot of fuss over a well-executed greeting, over a “hi my name is and i have autism” my three millionth and somethingth poem was epic epiphany, tongue still stuck in the third act. my character arc was all half-solved puzzle pieces and counted conversations, a miracle of early childhood intervention. miracles are my reason for existence, my literary context. i owe myself to all of the miracles in this world. i am only a redemption story my first lullaby will be dedicated to my mother. the first time ever she saw my face, there was nothing to redeem. no wires to uncross. no puzzle to solve. only tear-soaked wrists and an exhausted grin. we cry out together, and i am nothing but a son. dear mom, here is my lullaby: “and the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave to the dark and endless skies” -Roberta Flack (1972); sung via tear soaked wrists and wires uncrossing our first song. 54

sylvia rivera humbly requests that the official record show that yes, she did, in fact, throw the first brick at stonewall? oh, yes honey; and let me tell you. i was everything that night. i only drank girly drinks: a twice bloody mary and a molotov cocktail, but i was still glitter-drunk, a cosmo girl with puffy lips. i was the limp cartilage in every wrist, the whore sweating in every church. i was a lit match and a mattachine girl, my ralph laurens stained and the NASDAQ hitting terminal velocity, the body erotic and scraped from concrete. and i devastated manhattan. i levelled buildings. i scared children. i would slut-strut down greenwich village and leave bathhouse water in my wake. in the land of whores with lace-fronts, i was the storefront decoration. but i prefer to say accoutrement. it’s fancier and i think it means something good, something worth everything. and i was everything that night. and i swear to whatever god is left, i held that brick in my palm. i held it so good, so tender. i held it with the right kind of pride. and i was there. that night. at stonewall? i was everything. i bashed a pig’s skull in with harvey milk’s gavel and i smothered another in the AIDS quilt and i suffocated another in the pie i threw at anita bryant and i was there. that night. at stonewall. and i wrote poems about nights where i could be everything. but tonight is not that night. tonight is every other night and i am nothing but a black lung, a painted lady lost somewhere in the meatpacking district. it is a mattachine land now, corporate retreats and ralph laurens and chai lattes and i am nothing anymore. i’m not sure i ever was. a glittery man in a meshtop rolls my gurney down greenwich village: call it a vibe-check or a senicide dipped in girly drinks. he tells me i am too sloppy, that i ruin reputations. i grab him by the jaw so hard it shatters ceramic, the mortar slipping through my fingers, the mortar slipping through fingers. and i tell him, yeah i tell him i built this house. brick by fucking brick.

N A Z A N I C A S S I DY Spoken Word | Interlochen Arts Academy, Interlochen, MI

Trout When I go fishing, I grab the trout from the end of the pole with my bare hands, slap its tail with my open palm, and listen to the sound it makes as it flaps around the pavement. I love the space it creates inside of the lake. The last time I taught my father how to fish, I pranced around the dock waiting for the sunset to take control. To let myself listen to the waves crashing behind me. The last time I taught my father how to fish, he came back at me— swimming like a little salmon in the water. Swaying his arms to the sounds of the cicadas on the side. I wonder why they always assume I’m buying pop at the bait shop. I’d like the worms, leeches, minnows, crayfish, and crickets Please. Give me all of the different ways to reel one in. My father taught me how to talk to women. Since I was young, the only answer needed was yes, dear. Another woman, he said. So are you, he said. I had just finished prepping the rod and the bait, something new for the same old stories we always share with each other. Another woman, me too, I said. And he grabbed the back of my neck, forced it into the trout and told me to eat its eyeball. Last time I taught my father how to fish, I came out of the water muddy. Listen to the water, I say, closely, listen to the sway of the lake behind us— in front of us, my father taught me how not to drown. To always remember a flotation device, and to grab hold of the canoe on its side. He taught me the way to the ocean was through the bottom of the sand. You go

about a foot deep underneath and you enter another world. Since I was young, my father has been aware of my obsession. When I go fishing, I like to drag the cooler behind me so that the wheels warble on the dock’s slippery wood below. When we drag my mother with us to the lake I employ my dear tendencies. The words slip out like, of course, mama. Yes, mama. Love you Mama. He caught a body at the end of the line. The victim, a waterlogged girl with a pixie cut (you go about a foot deep underneath and you enter another world) her eyes still open, her mouth parted like a trout on the pavement.

I Am One Of Those Girls That will turn into a woman soon, that has been beaten up shriveled and spit on so close to my face there are ways to spot my man-made dimples. I made man one day. I sat on the delivery table and prayed to my god that someday I will tell him not to get too close to Emily, let me tell you that

I am one of those girls that has the rest of me torn up and lost in the flash drive of 2019 I am one of those girls that has been forgotten and I ask you now, Eden, for you to put on lipstick and pretend I am not one of those girls.

I am one of those girls that puts on lipstick just to feel like they haven’t given birth. To the idea that crystals can’t solve their problems, that tarot cards can’t solve my need for attention. And I tell my neighbor Aidan that someday he will understand. He will have a wife and she will be torn to puzzle pieces he will rearrange them, and try to fit them back together to no avail because some days are, “Just harder than others,” I say. When I’m in the classroom shriveled into a ball on the ground trying to hold back tears because I am one of those girls that has been forgotten. There are little lines whispered of say yes guess, the stories of the other red mouthed women around you. I hope that I can stop my son from de-monsterizing, from terrorizing, from being a little too close to the girl next door to the green grass, we sit under as I teach him how to ride in the backseat. I am one of those girls that went to the police after it happened. That gathered up the last of it, shoved it into my mouth, and sang it back to the deputy. After the suicide attempt, I went home and bathed what I thought was my child, and nursed him to sleep. Turns out it was just a scary coincidence that my dog liked to sit in bathtubs. I am one of those girls that can’t remember some parts. That sits idly at the memories other little teens share with me and is unable to process where I came from— I know where I’m going As a queer woman heaven is not an option, But as a survivor hell isn’t either. I am one of those girls that has been forgotten. I named my son Eden and hoped he would never find the apple hoped he wouldn’t give in to the way society torments the good ones. I am one of those girls that still listens to the sound of the ocean to fall asleep. That gathers up dreamscapes and astral projects into the next century to try and forget what happened in this one.

EMMA CHAN Poetry | Kent Place School, Summit, NJ

my mother and i imagine ourselves phoenixes for the Xinjiang Uyghur Muslims in Chinese concentration camps

my mother believes that the principles of flight are just stories to keep children from grieving their birds at night. against an earth ashen with ancestors, i let my tongue split silver cirrus clouds and consider what bereavement i am building this era. what tomb to trust with my wounds. swallow -ing, my mother claims this land was beautiful before she lay war-like and whispering into dying dusk. she says once we soared without hurting, held every song an occasion for silence, sang liturgies upon rooftops clattering against themselves like fault lines, & prayed. & hoped. & made weapons of our faith. in the afterlife, we weigh our bodies battered by our own wings, consider how many synonyms for dreaming we have choked with our bare hands just to exist as art or factual, bleeding within these blueing bones. yes, all of us beautiful murderers, boxing with the air as if it could save us, the currents ripping into our shoulderblades, blessing our own births with the names of animals we would never have survived as. see: all of us already mourning, all ready, because god, we never know how many bodies other people have burned until their fire lifts our fingertips, feather-light, still & shivering in the darkness. each of our chests afraid of falling, screeching at the skies for this story to end. praying ourselves a storm.

boo as an offering, each mourning i ache to be a story about hallowings and shallow rings of breath rising from bodies cold like gravestones. as a woman, i don’t believe in ghosts, only people who have learned to break bodies like dawn. god warns every night my blood strips itself sepulchral to the core, roars through my second stomachs, but i am much too grown to think of bleeding at every bathroom mirror. of course, i have always wanted to go begging for sweet nothings in the streets and wear too much blush and open my lips like a tomb to all the words with hoods bleeding themselves black. of course, for every bed there lies another vessel i exorcised from my elegies. of course, for each and every pumpkin is an egg wanting for its own insides, for every girl a mauled monster to match her swollen miracles. of course, i do not fear the demons, for they cannot find a curse that i haven’t already crumpled into my mouth doom-like and dizzying. and maybe every halloween i lash war-like and weary out of a prayer circle, summoning all the silent selves i have mothered, peeling themselves prostrate against the throbbing of my pulse. each night a demon or a god claws at my throat, tricks me into knowing my visceral bones: and maybe i still pray to god that at the heart of every glorious ghost story there is a woman wailing just to fill the silence of waiting to be unmythed, unmistaken. and maybe every fall i wish to gaze upon a withering moon stained with my heathen hands and not see all of our skulls refracted, seething. to be reborn in a body that can be seen without being sorry. to say god isn’t scary. to not be scared at all.

JOLIN CHAN Novel | Sage Hill School, Newport Coast, CA

All Things Lost Nana = Nànà (娜娜) Hsinyi = Xīnyí (心怡) Shuhui = Shūhuì (淑慧) Chiahao = Jiāháo (家豪) Weiyin = Wěiyīn (偉殷)

Part 1 “I'd like to ride the wind to fly home. Yet I fear the crystal and jade mansions are much too high and cold for me. Dancing with my moonlit shadow, it does not seem like the human world.” — Shuidiao Getou (Water Melody), Su Shi Chapter 1 Nana did not expect her birthday to be like this: in a strange, metal tube with strange, mostly-momentary people. Though they would all share this space for thirteen or so hours, they would disconnect then drift away for good at their destination. It was an uncomfortably intimate experience, in which arms would accidentally touch, long legs would squirm to find space, and eyes would shut to avoid unnecessary conversations. The only people who were not momentary were the ones directly to Nana’s left and right. Her boss dozed, sitting limply with her head slipping down in slumber. The young girl, five years old, was nestled in the aisle seat, stretching her neck to watch tiny men direct giant machines. Lastly, a baby boy slept in Nana’s arms. His delicate eyelids and dainty hands seemed to be the most permanent. In her youth, Nana would have never imagined soaring so easily over homes, cities, countries, and oceans. It was alien to her, how this clunky crate could abandon the concrete by itself, bearing the heaviness of luggage and people, and how it knew which clouds to fly through to avoid colliding with another plane filled with its own burdensome weight. These were the thoughts troubling Nana’s mind, so dense she feared it might sink the airplane. Now in her mid-sixties, the roaring engine and rumbling room stiffened her muscles and froze her hands. She gripped the boy with uncertainty. A sluggish pressure bore down on her, thrusting her back into the seat and pushing the boy—now crying—closer to her chest. She wondered if this sensation would be permanent as well, if this would be an everlasting side effect of flying. This was disproven, however, when the plane eventually leveled off and found its place in the sky. It was done, not the crying, which would happen intermittently for the rest of the trip, and not just take-off either. Something else had finished. Nana felt a tug in her chest. There was a rope wrapped around her heart, and someone or something or someplace on the ground was holding onto the other side. It began to unravel until, at some point above the Pacific Ocean, the strain was too much, too tight. And it ruptured into two. ***

Just one week ago, she had watched the maid and chauffeur work their last day. The maid hugged her at night, told her she was the lucky one and asked to keep in touch. The years they had spent together melded them into an inseparable pair, despite their age difference. The maid was 60

around thirty years younger, and Nana had admired her friend’s perfectly smooth ivory skin and thin hands. “If only I was as young as you,” Nana said longingly. “Then my back wouldn’t ache so much, and my hands might not crease anymore.” In reality, she was confused about the latest news. She only heard muffled phone calls behind closed doors and words she did not understand. Hsinyi, the young matriarch of the family, had pulled her into a room one day to tell her that Nana was to join them to move to America. It did not seem like an option. “Nannies like you are hard to find in America. We want someone we can trust.” As if Nana was supposed to know what that meant. “What about your home here?” Hsinyi waved her hand, brushing away the question that settled in the air. “Don’t worry about it. America will be my new home. Be sure not to tell anyone about this plan. It’s just between the two of us.” Nana wondered if she was an accomplice committing a crime, or if they were two schoolgirls sharing a secret. Over time, she learned more about this country and how lucky they were to have Hsinyi’s husband working there, according to Hsinyi. For the next several months, she would drag Nana, the nanny, along on her errands to do paperwork for passports and visas, a whole world that still left Nana’s head spinning into a whirlpool of confusion. Then, two weeks before the flight, Hsinyi let the maid and chauffeur go, pretending to grieve this shared loss and praising the work they had done. They were unaware that their ex-boss then turned around, went upstairs, and gleefully began packing, wondering which dresses were most suitable for Washington, which purses would impress the most people, and which pairs of shoes would fit into her lavender Samsonite. In the garage, the chauffeur leaned against the car, unsure where to walk next. Inside, on the ground floor, Nana consoled a teary maid. She cried for almost thirty minutes, only stopping because she had to make one last dinner for the Wangs. “Someone has to chop the vegetables. Or else we would all starve,” the maid said. Her usual youthful spark fizzled out with each word. After dinner, the two of them sat side by side in their small, shared bedroom on the first floor, an arm around each other. It was a humble, chilly-in-the-winter, stuffy-in-the-summer kind of room. Several of Nana’s creams and moisturizers were scattered across their dresser, accompanied by the maid’s Hello Kitty perfume and old eyebrow pencil. “You are an intelligent, beautiful young girl. There are many job opportunities for you out there,” Nana consoled. But her words only seemed to reach halfway through her friend’s ear, then bounced right back out. “I’m in my thirties, Nana. There’s nothing left in this city for me.” Nana always believed the young woman was destined for something greater than cleaning the dishes and folding the laundry, but there was a sense of truth in that statement. Nana remained silent. She wondered if there was anything left for a woman in her sixties. “Why did this happen to me? She knows my mother and brother are struggling. She knows they need to eat, to live.” A pain gnawed through Nana’s stomach and up into her throat, a frightening sense of uncertainty for a family she had never met. She could not console the maid for long. Hsinyi’s newborn son needed to be fed. His wails echoed through the house like a pounding, merciless drum. ***

The baby boy emerged in the world with the fullest head of hair anyone in the hospital room had ever seen. Hsinyi, face glowing and sighing in relief, had cried out in joy when she first saw her boy. After the nurses cleaned him off, she softly massaged her newborn’s cheeks and said, “Just like his mom.” “I hope not,” one of the nurses whispered to another. When Hsinyi returned from the hospital, “Look, look, Shuhui—this is your baby brother!” were her first words. Nana followed behind her, holding the boy against her chest. The little girl ran up to the entrance. She squinted at what was in her nanny’s arms, half wary of the newcomer and half entranced by this budding life. Her small hands reached up to brush her brother’s hair, before her mother, with a gasp, pushed them away. “Did you wash your hands? Were you playing outside?” From the very beginning, Hsinyi willingly let her life become dominated by the boy, named Chiahao, and promised him her entire soul. Every time Nana picked him up, swaddled him, or fed him, her employer’s eyes dashed towards her, inspecting every move like an almighty judge who knew everything there was to know about babies. The rest of the family followed in Hsinyi’s footsteps, the grandparents criticizing Nana when Chiahao would cry and the aunts and uncles scorning her caretaking abilities. No one bothered to help, however. Nana silently suspected they did not know how. They only seemed to know how to smile at his laughs and how to revere a baby who could not even acknowledge his worshippers. The only exception was Shuhui, who was never malignant towards her brother, but never overtly loving either. Instead, her eyes glazed over and her expression turned cold whenever she was in the same room as Chiahao. She became quieter, focusing on her studies and playing with her toys on her own. “Shuhui, why don’t we go for a walk?” Nana offered. The little girl merely shrugged. “Aiyah1, you’ve worked all day. Kids your age should be enjoying their childhood, not wasting away. You don’t want to grow up like me, do you?” With Chiahao taking his afternoon nap, and Hsinyi nodding absentmindedly when Nana told her their plan, they left the house to visit the nearby park. Shuhui rode her bike with a carefree spirit only a child could enjoy. Nevertheless, the nanny could tell this spirit was slightly tainted and growing thorns. She stopped under the beech tree whose sprawling branches shielded them from a stinging sun. “Don’t stop now! I’m trying to break my record!” the young girl yelled, pedaling furiously. She was a blur of pink and blue amidst the greenery, her heart pumping with every push. Nana, watching from meters away, knew her knees had weakened since Shuhui was born. They creaked all too often and carried a dull pain, while the sun did not seem to help either, making her joints more sluggish than usual. “Nana-ayi2, come on!” She stopped near a bench, only a dot in the distance, but her smile was evident. The nanny slowly hobbled over, laughing at this small child who could radiate enough energy to power the world. “You’re too fast for me! You’re like a hummingbird, you never stop. How am I supposed to keep up with you?” Shuhui cycled around her nanny, occasionally lifting her hands off the handlebars and spreading her arms out like wings. “I’ll slow down for you then.” “Ah,” Nana groaned slightly as she took a seat. “Don’t slow down for anyone, Shuhui. Find people who can match your speed.” In the young girl’s eyes, the thorns were back. “What about you?” “I’m too old. Do you see these knees? They’re almost ten times older than you are.” Nana pointed at her legs and swung them back and forth. “That sounds like nothing. I’m almost six years old, which is basically ten years old.” Nana chuckled. Aiyah (āiyā) is an exclamatory phrase usually used by Chinese speakers to express dismay, frustration, surprise, or pain. 1

Ayi (āyí) means “aunt” in Chinese, similar to “auntie.” It is often used by children to address women who are older than them. 2

“What?” Shuhui asked. “Nothing. Just remember to be safe. One day I might not be right behind you when you ride your bike.” “You’re wrong!” said Shuhui with so much conviction that Nana almost believed her. “One day, we’ll both fly far, far away together. Away from here, and we’ll live in our own home. Maybe we can even build it, like our own nest. Just the two of us, and we’ll fly like hummingbirds!” Nana watched the girl tilt her head into the sky, eyes closed, basking in the sunlight that seeped through the branches. Her arms spread again, and she was gone. Chapter 2 On the plane, Hsinyi leaned over Nana and fussed over Shuhui. “Sit like a woman. Just because we’ll be in the air doesn’t mean you get to be a mannerless child.” And those were her last words, at least for the next several hours. She pulled down her clunky sleep mask, supposedly designed to keep skin smooth during the harsh and drying ride. She had shown it off when she brought it back from the mall, as if her infant son and nanny would applaud at the sight of good skin care practices. Right before they got to their seats, she had insisted on taking the window seat. “Looking out the window will scare the rest of you.” She was half-right. The view only showed passengers that they sat powerlessly in a machine balancing on nothing but air. Besides, what she really wanted was to block out the sight of concrete that was intrinsic to Taipei. She wanted to wake up to never-ending American plains in the countryside, the ones from black-and-white western films, or something like New York City, whose grandness would make up for the concrete. In her dreams, she was reunited with Weiyin, both acting their part in a Taiwanese-drama-worthy embrace at the airport. But perhaps she was most excited about being united with the music, the streets, the people of America. She would dance and sing with the piano players of New York, drive down the California highway with golden beaches to her right, and thrive amid this wholly foreign, but wholly sensational world. Whenever she woke up, she realized how fast dreams were, a mere second of fantasies compared to her entire lifetime. Hsinyi wanted sleep to be a fast-forward button so she could accelerate into a new reality, no longer drowsy or sedated. And unlike dreams, which only left her remnants of images, she would have a full view of what was ahead—a bright, vivified existence. Maybe there was a slight pang buried somewhere under her ribs. It was a sensation she felt when she got out of the taxi and when she watched her bag on the security conveyor belt get swallowed whole by the scanner. Although she would never admit it, not to herself and especially not to others, she was aware of what would disappear from under her feet in a few moments: the only home she knew and understood. Hsinyi feared this fear, feared that it might grow into a monster who would force her legs to stand up, push themselves towards the exit, and leap off, back onto the concrete. A monster that might convince her to reunite with familiarity: the people, buildings, and land she was once intimate with. Still, Hsinyi assured herself that her dreams would numb the ache, soothe it until it shrunk into nothing. An atom in her complex system of life. What was an ant to a forest? A dot to all things created? It would join all things lost. Even before the plane took off, she was asleep. ***

Seattle was a pleasant break from the intense Taiwanese summers. The Wangs and their nanny arrived on a cloudy June day in SeattleTacoma International Airport, surrounded by bustling people occupied with luggage and departing relatives. “Weiyin said he would be here by now,” Hsinyi chuckled, as if her husband’s lateness was an endearing quality. The children found it less endearing, however. Chiahao had barely slept on the plane, while his sister had refused to eat the airplane food that tried to resemble chicken with rice and now begged to get food at the McDonald’s nearby. Nana tried to reason with them, but handling both at the same time was an ordeal for someone who had just as little 61

sleep—if not less—than the baby boy. Hsinyi’s incessant foot tapping and unnerving tempo as she paced back and forth only made it worse. Nana was seconds away from begging the nearest person to buy four chicken nuggets when Weiyin appeared, like a divine angel who was unfortunately sporting a too-long hairdo and a wrinkled blazer. Nevertheless, Nana saw a bright, golden ring around his head. But Hsinyi saw a person who only resembled her husband. It seemed like someone had carved a man with similar enough features, shrugged, and sent him out instead. She smiled and embraced him. He was apologetic, “Sorry, the traffic was bad, and I had to call a publisher about…” Nana couldn’t grasp the rest, some topic she believed was too advanced for her mind, but she didn’t mind. Chiahao had finally taken a break, and Shuhui was already snacking on her father’s gift for arriving in America—a bag of bizarrely red, rubber-like candy that Nana first furrowed her eyebrows at, then silently thanked as it calmed the young girl down. On the road, pressed into a small, struggling Toyota, the newcomers headed north towards downtown. Ten minutes after driving away from the airport, Hsinyi realized she was riding on the famous I-5, a river of dull gray that flowed up and down the West. Tales of this river were as rooted in her as ancient Taiwanese folklore. This was the legend of the Muddy River. Hsinyi was the young man living near the water. She liked to think America was the young lady in a white, flowing dress whose purple seed would burgeon into plentiful fruit. She would be sated. But Nana was a rabbit stuck in the middle of the road, cars droning by her without a care or thought. The rubber tires came dangerously close, brushing against her sides. Each one was a wave that might swallow her up and consume her whole. The evergreen trees crowded around her, and the roads wove around each other too freely, almost selfishly. She was familiar with skyscrapers, having worked and lived in Taipei for most of her life, but these, in the distance, hunted for their car and threatened to collapse. The metal, glass, and bricks would all fall on top of her in a reckless mass. She sank into her seat, tightening her hold on Chiahao. Hsinyi’s smile scared her, how sharp it seemed in contrast to the blurs around them. It was a gleeful mocking. ***

The Wang family’s small, ground-level condo was located in a place Weiyin called, “The Pines.” It lived up to its name, surrounded by a mob of trees. The newcomers, who were used to tall apartment buildings and beaming signs flashing twenty-four seven, were in awe of the wild pines. “Did you know,” Hsinyi said after ten minutes of looking at the same nature pass by the car window, “that Washington is also called the Evergreen State?” But a professor’s life in America did not guarantee a life like the ones Hsinyi saw on the television. In fact, it was nowhere close to what she thought was the pinnacle of American culture. Their new home was a cramped, two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment that barely let any light in, but Weiyin said Washington never had any light anyway. “It’s cozy. Perfect for a family.” Hsinyi had never lived in a house so small. She had spent her entire life in extravagant apartments in Taipei or multi-level homes in the more suburban areas. As she toured their condo, which did not take long, her mind wandered towards comparisons: how her childhood closet was almost as big as the kitchen, how the bathroom seemed like it was the size of her old shower. “Where’s my room?” Shuhui said, impatiently waiting for her mother to stop gawking at the bidet-less toilet. “Don’t be greedy, Shuhui. It’s your brother’s bedroom too.” That was when Weiyin suddenly stood up. “Oh, Nana. I’m sorry I forgot. We thought it would be hard for you to share a room with the kids since there’s already not much space. There’s a small bed in the closet, or you can have the couch to sleep on.” It was not even a question, but rather a choose-your-fate type of statement. Specifically, the fate of her aching back. A closet seemed a little cruel, though she would never say that to her bosses, but sleeping on the couch—old, creaky, and in the middle of the living room—was like her pain was on display. “I’ll choose the closet.” 62

She had almost nothing to unpack, so she sat there in her closet listening to Hsinyi’s laughter, hysterical with exhaustion, as she joked that only a fly could live in a place so small. ***

Even though it was summer, Washington was dark, laying a thick layer of gloom over their heads. But years of dealing with too much sweat and a callous sun made Nana thankful for Seattle. As much as she missed her home, she savored each unlabored breath and the ease with which she could walk. Still, the distance from the library to the new apartment was several kilometers. Weiyin told her about the bus, but Nana was wary of entering a strange vehicle. Back home, she was not afraid of crossing the road even when cars were racing towards her. She did not hesitate to jump on her electric scooter and speed through the small gaps between cars, or take the metro to quickly reach her destination. But this was different than riding the metro or hailing a taxi in Taipei. It was lonelier. There seemed to only be a maximum of two other riders. There was no rush of people trying to board the train. That might have seemed like a relief to most people, but Nana felt deserted, and a foreboding feeling nestled deep inside her chest whenever she found herself alone. Besides, they could not even understand what she wanted to say. It was like her voice hit a barrier and never reached their ears. Here, they said something to her or about her, and she was afraid of knowing what left their mouth. Walking to and from the library on her day off was Nana’s only choice, despite the pain in her knees when she had to pass over a hill and the pain in her heart when someone stared for too long. Occasionally, she stopped to rest on a bench. “It’s all the walking,” Nana had said to her father more than a decade ago. She had begged her old employer to let her take a break for two weeks, to visit her father who was rigid and motionless on his bed. Her father waved his hand. “I’m not weak. It must be something else. Something that will disappear soon, don’t worry.” But she knew what he used to be like, a man who could walk tens of kilometers for groceries. Now, she watched him wince every moment he was alive. The thought of simply living did nothing but make her worry— just having a beating heart and a working head—causing so much pain. “Let me make you your lunch.” To Nana, those two weeks meant cooking, feeding, cleaning, and being. Being there to give him water and wipe his face. Being there to slowly spoon feed him rice and vegetables, the only two things he could eat. It meant living there and talking to keep him company. “The boy I take care of, the son of the government official, is almost turning ten. He said he wanted a new set of toy cars,” she said. “Taipei has so many cars, you wouldn’t believe it, father. Well, maybe you wouldn’t like it. You would probably say that it smells too unnatural—that’s what I thought when I first went there. But I think I’ve grown used to it.” He grunted, perhaps in response or because he was in pain. “It’s nice to hear the cars at night,” Nana added while fixing his blankets. “It reminds you that there’s still life, even in the dark.” But it was also two weeks of sleeping with uncertainty because his eyes seemed so glazed over, she was not sure if he heard anything she said. A few days later, he called Nana over. “When I’m gone, don’t think of me like this. In bed and without spirit. Remember me as the man who could throw you in the air and cross rivers with you on my back.” She mastered sticky Asian summers and biting winters. Back then, she learned how to handle children who would not listen and parents who let their pride block their ears and eyes. Now, she could handle Chiahao’s late-night screams, Shuhui’s afternoon tantrums, and even Hsinyi’s worst sneers and scorn. Taking care of her sick father, however, Nana found that she could not cope with the position she found herself in. She had broken down that day, after closing the door to her father’s bedroom to let him rest more before the inevitable happened. Sliding to the cold, concrete ground, Nana prayed and prayed, then cursed the gods. How could they just watch people atrophy? How could they not have one single drop of empathy? She cried so hard, the collar of her coat was drenched, and her breathing became a heaving shambles, each breath falling apart in her throat. It hurt even more because the walls were so thin, and she did not want him to hear her desperation, so she forced herself to

muffle the sounds in her hands. Nana’s grief wanted to escape, clawing her entire body and leaving painful wounds. But she had to settle for stuffing it inside her chest. She could not let her father think she was not strong enough to handle his condition, not strong enough to find life after death. Chapter 3 Hsinyi claimed that she was the dreamer of the family. Her husband, she deemed, was the doer. To Nana, he seemed to be governed by silence, speaking only when necessary. She wondered how he even taught his college students, imagining an uncomfortable class of stillness. One night, Hsinyi told her, “Don’t think Weiyin is a bad husband— he isn’t. I mean, just look at my closet.” Then, she let out a nervous chuckle that dissolved limply into her wine glass. “I never said he was,” Nana replied. “Well,” the matriarch said, fidgeting in her seat. “I just think that’s what people think. Because he’s never home. He’s just working, that’s all” It was true. Her husband spent the majority of the year in America, teaching East Asian languages and doing research. The only days he would come back were during Christmas, something Hsinyi still could not fully comprehend. “Why doesn’t he just come back during Lunar New Year? Surely, his bosses would understand. A family needs their father during the holidays, right?” When faced with the inescapable questions—politely laced with a hint of judgment—of her acquaintances, Hsinyi would simply put on a tight-lipped smile and say, “Oh, he’s back in America right now. They just need him too much to give him up for us.” So, Weiyin became the doer, the one working for his family. He was the one who let Hsinyi dream. Not exactly dream of or with money because she was born with the status of a millionaire. Instead, she dreamed of a new land. Years ago, Weiyin would visit Taipei occasionally while he studied in America. Hsinyi, a friend of a friend at the time, admired her future husband with tunnel vision, forming him into something almost exotic. On their first dates, it seemed like every question she asked was about his time away from Taiwan, almost nothing about his background or his personality. He answered truthfully, partially motivated by the fact that he was not getting any younger and partially entranced, as a struggling international student, by Hsinyi’s wealth. Perhaps the biggest factor was that Weiyin had never felt so wanted. He had girlfriends here and there, in both Taiwan and in America. But as each one came into—then left—his life, a pattern emerged. The lifespan of his relationships was always cut short by a growing disinterest. They never ended in screaming, tears, or any of the impassioned scenes typical of a television drama. Instead, they flatlined slowly. Sometimes, it was that he got bored of this so-called love he forced himself to feel. Weiyin was sure he felt the warmth in his heart in the beginning, but he did not realize how fast it could dissipate. Other times, it was the woman who fell out of love, disenchanted by his constant need to work and the lack of attention. “Do you ever think of anyone besides yourself ? Anything besides your classes?” Amanda had questioned. She did not even ask it with any malice or intent to make him feel guilty. Instead, her words were filled with genuine curiosity. He tried to fix this. There were many times he simply stayed with one of his previous girlfriends because he hoped the passion would come back. Part of him felt guilty for showcasing a false impression of himself; the other part dreaded having to fake his feelings and wanted to break up right away. Weiyin was sure the same would happen with Hsinyi. She was excited now, but one of them would wake up dissatisfied and prickled with the desire to leave. He could not have too-high hopes, could not leave too much of his stuff at her apartment, could not forget to keep track of what she left behind at his. Still, he noticed how excited she was to be with him, how she hovered over his work quietly to observe, how her questions never lost their eagerness. Hsinyi brought him mugs of tea and little bowls of cut fruit when he worked into the darkness, lightheartedly proclaiming herself as, essentially, the perfect American wife. After all, though far into the future, she was expecting a ring, children, and a new home. Hsinyi dreamed so much that Weiyin grew confident her passion would never die.

In bed, she would whisper, “One day, you’ll take me to your home, right? We can drive across the country together, and we’ll see the mountains and trees, maybe even the deserts. Doesn’t that sound perfect?” He only nodded, because he was frightened at the prospect. Weiyin was nervous to make a promise, a pledge to bring her wherever he went. But they had lasted so long already, longer than any of his previous relationships. It was nearly a revelation for him, confirming he was a human being with a normal, functioning heart. There was still warmth in his chest and warmth in hers. Weiyin began to think that, if she could dream after a year together, then maybe he could do this. He was still wanted, and perhaps he could still want her. ***

The day Hsinyi found out that her little baby—a still-developing Shuhui, not yet named Shuhui—was going to be a girl, she smiled at the doctor and cupped her stomach. In the car, she cried. “Nine months,” she said, in between tears and exaggerated gasps. “To carry and give birth to a girl.” She spat out the last word. Shuhui was only as small as a sweet potato, the ones farmers dug up in the dirt then threw into their baskets without a second glance. Weiyin patted his wife’s shoulder. “Next time,” was all he said. He had not said anything at the doctor’s appointment, only nodding seriously as if what the doctor revealed was grave news. He was silent, but he felt a little disappointment settle in his chest. It was an average afternoon, and Weiyin pulled into the basement parking lot of his wife’s parents’ apartment building. Hsinyi shook her head and leaned against the window. “I don’t think I want to see them today.” “They invited us. We should go. They have lunch prepared already.” He was only scared of a few things—Hsinyi’s mother and father were two. Congested, she gasped for another breath and moaned, “I can’t face them.” The napkin she clenched fell in her lap. Hsinyi’s parents found at their door an awkward, fidgeting Weiyin and their puffy-eyed daughter. She barged into her old home. “A girl?” her father asked. His words were emotionless. Weiyin nodded, bowing his head slightly to look at his slippers instead of his father-in-law’s questioning stare. He was scared that—no, he knew that—Hsinyi’s father would blame him. But, then again, maybe it was his fault. This was only half of the scrutiny. He would have to deal with his parents later. Two more pairs of eyes would mist over with discontent, possibly even chagrin or defeat. How big a role did he have in carrying out his legacy? Today gave him a hint at an answer. Lunch was a silent event. The only sounds were the ceramic plates clinking against the glass table and the maid’s scurrying footsteps. All of Hsinyi’s favorite dishes were laid out in front of her in a dizzying, continuously moving circle. A whirlpool in her own home. She forced down a bite of rice, then gripped the table to balance herself. Her parents’ eyes were on her. Weiyin leaned towards her with furrowed brows. Hsinyi wondered if they were looking at her with concern or aversion. A disquieting heaviness descended into her stomach.

JEANIE CHANG Design Arts | Northwest High School, Germantown, MD

"I Am Both" Detachable Denim, Part I Upcycled jeans, spray paint, safety pins 2020 64

"Same Me, New Me" Tiger Top Upcycled fabric scraps, organza, embroidery thread, shoelace 2020 65

LO RY CHAR L E S Visual Arts | Design and Architecture Senior High School, Miami, FL

4c Acrylic on canvas 2020 66

CHIC Acrylic on canvas 2020 67

LAUR A ANNE CHEN Novel | Orange County School of the Arts, Santa Ana, CA

Jewel-Steeped Hibiscus I I have only recently realized the meaning of the name of the place I was born. You called it Jiujinshan, but to everyone else not living in Chinatown, it was San Francisco. When you first asked for directions through this city, the pale ghosts laughed at you because the only word you could muster was, “Jin-shan.” But they knew what you meant; many before you had already come down this path. The character jiu refers to ‘old’; jin, ‘gold’; and shan, ‘mountain’. I don’t know why the meaning of these words never connected in my head before I became thirty years of age, but before then they just seemed to be a name. They were there, and I never questioned them. I spoke them, not realizing that in them the history of thousands chasing glory lingered. By the time you arrived, the 1849 gold rush was long gone, but now, you told me, a new life was possible—depending on where you step, where you turn. All it takes is one closed eye. Like mother, like daughter, they say, but I don’t know how I could ever do what you did. I never made my bed nor folded my clothes; I left everything littered all over the place as if I owned the world. Every time you would get angry and shout and hurl something into the wall—a chair, the last time I can remember—the filmy white paint flaking off like scabbed skin, the wooden back post lopsided like a spine smashed by a rock, fragmented vertebrae. But only a moment afterwards you would laugh, forgetting everything and nothing and telling me about how much I reminded you of your younger self. “My younger self was the real me,” you’d say. “I don’t feel quite so right in this shell of a body anymore.” So you let me throw my things and rule my empire—at least until you lost your temper and forgot your promises—because perhaps that was the greatest freedom you could give me in the eight-by-eight square feet of space that made up our home. The walls were peeling when we first moved in, but we’d bought a can of white paint to cover them not half a year after our stay—do you remember, Mother? We’d spent all day trying to make the paint as even as possible, but even then we messed up, probably because of how dim the lighting was. There were buildings all around our apartment; no one shared the light because there was none to give. You had to take what you could get. I have always wondered what the real you was like. Everything changes once you become a mother, I imagine you’d say if you were here now. Since you tell me the real you was so much like me, I’ve modeled her off of myself. Carefree—at least when I was younger—yet passionate and just a tad bit cheeky. But the greatest difference is that you are stronger than me. I don’t know what it’s like to have four brothers, or any siblings at all, for the record, but this is how I’d imagine it to be. Do you think the girl I’m painting is who you were, or is she nothing like you at all? Even with all the stories you told me, I don’t feel like I ever knew you enough. It is a strange, voiceless thought; how you can breathe in words and smell the places and see the sights and taste the past illustrated before you—but nothing really makes sense until you breathe out, a couple dozen years later. I want to know you, Mother. I want to know who you were. I want to understand you—perhaps then I can finally come to understand us. ⚘

October 1884 — Beizheng, China The real you plowed her heels into the dirt, splinters of wood jabbing into her hardened palms, and threw all of her weight forward so as to lessen the burning in her calves. Beneath a dappled myriad of oranges and reds, the dray squealed down the road, its flimsy wheels bumping over stones and rodent carcasses alike. Silhouettes of crows lingered atop clay roofs amidst the waning of color into a darkened dusk, the harbinger of the mid-autumn moon at its fullest. A cool wind swept by. She stopped to wipe sweat off her brow—her head throbbing, her labored breathing too loud in her clogged ears. Again she hefted the dray, the sweet potatoes rolling in their boxes. She planted a foot in front of her, then another, then another. Her stomach rumbled noisily, and she clenched her jaw in humiliation though no one else was there. “Shut it.” A sound of surprise came from behind her. “How did you know I was here?” Recognizing her elder brother’s voice, Yingzhen continued forward, not caring to turn nor answer his faulty assumption. “The rest of them gone up already?” “A while ago.” “Father just seems to be that humiliated by my presence, doesn’t he? To the point where he can’t even walk with his daughter.” “And by himself.” Yingzhen set the dray down again to catch her breath. “What?” “He is humiliated by himself.” Jinrong stepped into her line of sight and, on his toes, reached over the dray to pluck a string bean from a basket, popping it into his mouth. He spit the stem at her feet and tried to assume a nonchalant demeanor, propping his chin up against the dray, but his missing hand made it difficult. The posture slipped, and the next moment he was punching himself in the face and tripping over his own feet. “What makes you say that?” Yingzhen said, ignoring the disaster on the ground before her. Reddening, he clambered to his feet, quickly collecting himself. “A middle-aged man dependent on his sister. The bulk of the crops we tend to are for her restaurant’s profit. Without Second Aunt, we’d have nothing. All of Beizheng whispers about it. How could he not be ashamed?” Yingzhen laughed quietly, under her breath, as if she was afraid of her father hearing though he was miles away. Jinrong made one last attempt to dust himself off. “Need a hand?” “You have one to spare?” He turned away from her, his fingers subconsciously tracing the stump of his right hand. “No.” Yingzhen rose, hoisting the dray up. She hadn’t noticed his dilemma. “Then why’d you ask?” “No—I mean—yes.” Despite the plain difficulty, Jinrong took one side of the dray and ushered Yingzhen to the other. “No need to do everything yourself.” She scowled. “And of course Father definitely didn’t demand that I do this and absolutely no one left me alone here with this giant bulk of—” Turning sharply, she rounded on him. “If you’re trying to make up for how mean you were to me when I was little—” He looked crestfallen. “What?”

“—you should know that I don’t fall for these kinds of tricks.” Jinrong sighed. “I was a child.” “You tried to push me in the well! Actually, you didn’t try. I did fall in.” “An accident. And then I got you out.” “Very much an accident,” she said bitterly. Yingzhen paused, pursing her lips. “If this is not a trick, then it’s because of that incident.” “Which incident?” “That one.” She jerked her chin to his stump. “After you lost your hand in the factory, your claim as Father’s favorite faded. To him, you had lost your usefulness.” Jinrong tried to catch her gaze. “Yingzhen—” he began, as if trying to ask her to stop. “You know it’s true. And now you understand the way I feel as his despised child. He almost treats you the same. But believe me, it’s still better to be a son than a daughter.” Yingzhen turned to Jinrong now, meeting his eyes, no reservation in them whatsoever. “Heliang is now his special child. The second eldest son, twelve years of age, and his best investment for a better future.” For a while, Jinrong did not speak. It was only when a slight wind came brushing down the road that he dared to murmur the words, as if perhaps the wind would whisk the truth away. “It always comes down to that, doesn’t it?” Yingzhen barked a sardonic laugh. “We better get going. Second Aunt won’t be so happy if we’re late for dinner.” In quiet acceptance of defeat and the power of fate, Jinrong and Yingzhen toiled down the road towards the inner part of Beizheng. Backs bent, legs burning, chests heaving, gasps dry in their throats, their bowed shadows against the swaying fields of millet painted a wry spectacle for the crows, who still perched on the farmhouse roof. Caw, caw, caw, caw. Four cries—the Chinese unlucky number. Jinrong glanced up uneasily but Yingzhen paid no heed to it. After all, omens are only feigned truths. And as you once told me, with a Player’s cigarette between your teeth and smoke curling around us like crowns of snake heads, never let someone tell you what your destiny is. In the end, destiny is something you make for yourself. ⚘

games, telling unhappy stories with half-lidded eyes. A few well-dressed women bartered with the vendors, shaking their fists in the air and holding up curled fingers before fiercely turning to leave, only to be halted by the surrender of their opponents. They veiled suppressed smiles behind their fans as the coins clinked between them. There were a few outcasts in the pandemonium. A lone old man sat amidst hanging lines of dried fish and seafood—all species of carp, catfish, siniperca chuatsi, northern snakehead—quietly separating them into baskets. Some abandoned children wandered the streets, picking their noses or teeth or nails. Stray dogs followed them, heads bowed, tails drooping. Yingzhen halted beneath the vertical display hanging from the building: 北正小吃, the most straightforward name Second Aunt could have come up with, much like her cutting personality. The words were among the only characters she could recognize. She jerked her chin at Jinrong. “Go ahead. I’ll bring it to the back.” Jinrong hesitated for a moment then nodded, turning away. He was guilty, Yingzhen knew. Despite his sympathy for her, he had his insecurities—and his pride. No, it would be much too shameful to walk in the room with her as if their status was somehow equivalent. He was her elder brother, two years her senior, and he was the man in the family after his father. To return side by side with his little sister, assisting her, was the greatest humiliation. Mother, you would never talk about a person as much as you did your brother. I wish I could have met him and loved him like you did. You would tell me about how he would have been just as much an older brother to me as he was to you, even if he was my uncle. He was everyone’s older brother. Then you would sigh and lean back in your chair, your eyes wandering to the spider crawling on the ceiling. “I knew I hated him before, though,” you’d say to me. “Time tells funny tales.” The real you watched him go then turned to wheel the dray to the back alley. Few roamed here, save a few lines of scribbled poetry on peeling walls and clumps of dirty laundry dangling from rusting railings and—of course—the occasional cat. Yingzhen paused beside the sewer railing and began to unload some of the baskets; the dray was too wide to fit through the alleyway.

The rumbling dray passed into town, the dirt roads easing into stone pathways, the bare terrain morphing into streets speckled with orange and yellow trees. Red lanterns dangled from their boughs like heavenly stars brought down to the earth, spelling the characters 中秋節快樂.. People came trickling into sight, and Yingzhen glimpsed them hanging more lanterns in the trees, hurrying to finish dinner reunion preparations, families and their children smiling at each other, holding hands. At least, that’s how they did it in San Francisco—Jiujinshan, I mean. Though, I think, it must not have been the same. We made our red-lipped buildings and winged roofs for safety in isolation and to replicate home across the sea, but sometimes in the midst of watching the parade you’d turn aside, looking around at things funny. I’d ask you what was wrong and you’d say, “It’s the air. The air is different. I can feel it.” The real you’s gaze brushed over a group of young women with painted faces, tottering on their bound feet. If Father had a little more money, I’d be one of them. She imagined being married off to some handsome young man, his family secure and well off, their residence spacious and clean. Her father would acquire some affluence—regard, at least, from having a beautiful married daughter. Yingzhen clenched her jaw, flinging the reverie out of her head. No one would want a beggarly girl with big feet, and she knew it. It’s not the man I love, it’s the façade of the life I envision. And she hated the thought of being dependent on anyone. She hated being bound to her father now; how would it be any better with another man? Just as she did when the others called her Little Shenjin, she wanted to be her own person—yet even if she wanted to, she could never be. In the next corner, small stands littered the street, their parasols extending over one another. A sea of faces swarmed around them, shouting over each other, trying to hear, but no one could; they just waved their hands and made faces, each one interpreting the motions for themselves. Hopeless men wailed from opium dens, lying on top of Go

Second Aunt’s door already swayed partially ajar, its rusty hinges squeaking though there was no wind. Her hands full, Yingzhen wedged her foot into the gap and kicked it open. Dust tickled her nostrils as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she suppressed a sneeze. Setting the baskets down in a corner, she pinched her nose until the tingle went away, then briskly turned back for the rest. When she returned to the grey room, Second Aunt was standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips and her lips pursed. She wasn’t angry, Yingzhen knew; she just always looked like that. Though there was quite a bit of space between them, Second Aunt seemed to tower over Yingzhen, her form filling up the entire doorway and blocking out what little light came from the other side. Yingzhen lay her baskets down and dipped her head. “Hello, Second Aunt.” Second Aunt narrowed her eyes. “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” “No, Second Aunt.” “You seem awfully inclined to.” “I wouldn’t want to miss your cooking.” At that, Second Aunt beamed and shook a finger at Yingzhen. “Oh, child. You just really know how to flatter me, don’t you?” She chuckled to herself for a moment before lifting her head and snapping her fingers in the air. “All right then. Get those baskets over here and you’ll have the first spoonful of my signature 牛肉湯.. How does that sound?” “Not before you are properly served, Second Aunt.” Second Aunt was even more amused. “Your mother taught you filial piety well, didn’t she?” Yingzhen turned, hiding a smile. “She did.” “Speaking of which—” Second Aunt fiddled with something in her sleeve. “Your birthday was just a month ago. How old are you now, Yingzhen?” 69

“Fifteen.” Second Aunt tsked. “Children grow up so quickly. I hope you don’t rot as fast as that cilantro there.” Yingzhen glanced ruefully at the basket in her arms. “Here,” Second Aunt said, slapping a 紅包 on the ground before her feet. “Don’t tell your father.” Yingzhen bent down to pick it up, but when she straightened to thank her, Second Aunt had already gone. She finished with the rest of the baskets, and when the job was done, she found Jinrong standing sullenly in the doorway. Marching up the stairs, she brushed past him. “She said it—I get the first spoonful,” she whispered into his ear. “What?” Paying him no heed, she continued into the kitchen where Second Aunt was stirring the stew. The aromas of star anise and soy sauce wafted to her nose, brimming with childhood nostalgia. “Let me do it,” Yingzhen told Second Aunt. “You go ahead and sit down.” Second Aunt chuckled again, muttering something that sounded like oh child, oh child under her breath. Not bothering to hide her smile this time, Yingzhen swiveled around to find Jinrong standing behind her, his mouth puckered. “Now you go and sit down too,” Yingzhen told him. “I doubt you would like it very much if Heliang and Zhangyi and Weiyi were all there except for you.” Jinrong’s expression only soured more, but he did as she said. Turning to the giant pot of beef noodle soup, Yingzhen seized two towels to grip the handles before hefting it down the hallway that opened to the main room. A few glass lights hung from the ceiling, complementing the red strips of old Chinese sayings on the walls. Second Aunt had closed the restaurant for the festival, so the whole room was set and empty save the tables connected in the center where the rest of the family waited—thoroughly occupied by a rising dispute. “Weihao.” Fourth Aunt—or was it Fifth Aunt?—jerked her chin at Yingzhen’s father. “Long time no see. Ever care to return that money you borrowed? Five years ago?” Livid eyes glared daggers at her. “Why don’t you treat your elder brother with some more respect?” “Oh, I’m sorry, 三哥,” the aunt taunted. “Feeling down?” Yingzhen spooned the soup into all thirty-five bowls—that of her grandfather, five aunts and their children, two uncles and their children, and her own family of six. Some of them were absent, but she didn’t bother making sense of it. None of them paid her any heed except for Second Aunt, who smiled and nodded. “Little Shenjin!” Yingzhen stiffened, and a good portion of the clamor in the room died down. She lifted her head slowly to find one of her cousins smiling widely at her—the younger of Second Uncle’s two sons. “Taijiang,” she said. The one who had just been married to some rich girl in the better part of Beizheng. Who else would have the audacity? Yingzhen’s father had broken away from his puerile argument. “What did you just say?” He rose from his seat, narrowing his eyes at the young man. Taijiang scarcely even blinked. “I called her Little Shenjin,” Taijiang said, unfazed. “Isn’t that what we all used to call her?” Yingzhen let the ladle sink into the pot and set down the bowl she had been filling. She considered stepping forward to her father, perhaps calming his outburst, but decided against it. She wasn’t in the mood to get involved between them. “You—” Yingzhen’s father pushed his chair aside and stepped forward, shaking a finger at Taijiang, red flushing his face. His eyes had gone balefully wide, their whites brimming with fury and rage and pain. It seemed if they opened any wider, surely they would pop out of their sockets and land in Taijiang’s soup, slimy with blood and fluids. He kept sputtering, his jaw clenched so fiercely it might have unhinged if pushed just a moment further. “You dare—” Taijiang crossed his arms. “What is it, old man?” Yingzhen’s father plowed the last few steps forward and seized Taijiang by the collar, slamming his face into his bowl. “Say that again.” 70

He shook Taijiang furiously, wringing soup from his hair. “Say that one more time—” “It’s Shenjin, isn’t it? That’s the name you can’t hear. Shenjin. You’re scared of a name, old man, you’re scared!” “Taijiang!” It was Second Aunt who had spoken, her eyes fierce, assertive. She rose and strode over to the two of them. “Sit down and apologize to your uncle,” she said. Taijiang scowled. “Second Aunt—” “You are forcing me to deal with you like a child. Are you going to continue acting like a child or do you want me to treat you your age?” Taijiang pressed his lips together but sat stiffly down, turning back to his splattered soup. “You have not yet apologized,” Second Aunt said. “I will not.” For a moment, no one moved. Then—Second Aunt sighed and turned to Yingzhen’s father, muttering. “Stubborn child.” The gathering wore on. It wasn’t even half an hour before Grandfather retired to the back room, muttering something about back and knee aches. Dusk deepened, and above them the moon glinted amidst a blanket of shadow, but the night was early and they had just brought out the osmanthus wine. The fragrance drifted to their noses and kept them bound to the room, like vipers curled around their necks, slender tongues flicking across their eyes, venom frothing before their faces. Give me a door, give me a door, the vipers whispered, beady eyes flaring. But you told me then there were only windows to look out of. The trapdoors were sealed shut or laced with snares, the ground crumbling and linking back together as the years took wing. A couple unknown relatives were fighting again, and Yingzhen’s eyes travelled back and forth between them. “Another,” she said to Jinrong, holding out her empty cup. Despite her being so much younger, Jinrong filled the glass quietly. Yingzhen clicked her chopsticks in Jinrong’s face. “What’s the matter? Lost your appetite?” “Well—” “Ah, forget it. I don’t care enough to join your… sentimentality. These noodles are too good.” Jinrong buried his face in his hands. “Why are you like this?” Yingzhen shrugged and clicked her chopsticks in his face again. “What’s the point of crying when you could just not?” “Have you been listening to anything anyone’s been saying?” “No. Doesn’t concern me.” “Really?” Jinrong leaned forward. “Not even the Jin-shan?” “Well, I do keep hearing those words getting passed around. But they’ve been around for quite a while. Years, at least.” “Yingzhen—” “What?” “I thought you were intelligent.” “I’m flattered.” Jinrong sighed in exasperation. “There are strange tales passing around—strange tales of men becoming tremendously rich overnight.” “That’s a shame. I’m not a man, and I’d never want to be.” He ignored her. “Across the sea, they say, is the Jin-shan—the Gold Mountain—where gold and wealth and riches are to be had for all.” Yingzhen snorted. “Like the Forbidden City, but for everyone, hm?” “It’s incredible.” “Who told you?” “A cousin of Taijiang’s wife saw it with his own eyes.” “So this is one of his stories.” “It’s not a story, Yingzhen,” Jinrong said. “So many have returned with proof.” “Hm.” She frowned, suddenly noticing the impatient tapping noise beside her, and glanced around to find Second Aunt standing there, thumping a chopstick on the table. “Don’t tell me my niece is going deaf at such a young age,” she said. “Come. We’re going outside to watch the moon.” This time around, I imagine the real you listened to the stories. Under the watchful gaze of the moon, a silver glow crying silver tears, the images before her blurred together, and a vision manifested in the night

sky. Above the grey streets of Beizheng and the shambles of her father’s farm, the Gold Mountain sailed. The land of the free. Crisp wind brushed past her face, sweeping her hair behind her, and she could taste her liberty at the tip of her tongue, the flavor faint but sweet. She savored it, harboring it within her tongue, and slowly, it morphed into allure. A quiet hope. A throbbing hope. But not yet a promise. “Gē-gė,” Yingzhen murmured, cupping her face in her hands, warm from the wine. Jinrong shifted on the roof beside her. “Hm?” “Do you think Father wants to forget Mother?” There was a silence. “I don’t know.” Yingzhen sighed. “Everyone is so afraid of being forgotten when they go. Doesn’t he know that?” Jinrong gave no response; he had none for her.

II The words for America in Chinese are mĕi guó [美國], meaning beautiful country. I have always wondered why. For most other countries, the names have no such significance. Either they imitate sounds—Italy as yì dà lì [意大利] and the Philippines as fēi lǜ bīn [菲律賓]—or there is simply no meaning at all. Why, out of all places, is America the one and only ‘beautiful country’? How, with its Western establishment, tens of thousands of years younger, does it mean so much to a people across the ocean? How, at the turn of the twentieth century, when U.S. imperialism went hand in hand with Chinese exclusion, did we come to speak the name through gritted teeth, irony lolling off the tips of our tongues? “Mĕi guó,” you tell me every night. “Mĕi guó, mĕi guó, mĕi guó. Our beautiful country. This is our home.” “I know, Momma.” “This is our home,” you say again. “Our home.” ⚘ Moist earth seeped in through the coarse hemp of her breeches as the real you knelt in the dirt, begrudgingly lowering the yoke. She let the wooden buckets thud to the ground, a trapped girl’s work, a messy chore flung aside. Wood on wood thunked dully against one another as the stick fell, one tipping over at the impact—and the girl, who had been stretching out her back, jumped and reached immediately to stabilize the bucket, only to remember that it was empty and there was nothing to lose. Yingzhen sighed and glanced up towards the grey sky, her eyes glossed over. In the way that somebody calls your name when your mind is spaced out into nothing, the words Little Shenjin rang in her head, her skull vibrating with the impact. Her gaze shifted to look directly forward at the ashen yellow hills, fog blanketing everything beyond the second mound. Within the fog undulating phantoms of her father’s face surfaced, that face of fury and rage and pain when those words were spoken. Little Shenjin. She bit her lip, turning fiercely away, but Taijiang’s taunting voice remained—persisted. It’s Shenjin, isn’t it? That’s the name you can’t hear. Shenjin. You’re scared of a name, old man, you’re scared! She didn’t know exactly what day it had been, but she remembered that night seven winters ago: the sputtering fire, the cracking wood mimicking the sound of whips, the gale threatening to choke out the last sparks. Her hand reached forward, straining, to grasp onto the fugitive visions, the image of her mother’s face—the shape of her nose, the outline of her mouth, the familiar features everyone always said she took after. The name—again. Little Shenjin, she remembered them calling her. Little Shenjin. Yingzhen! she would protest, angrily. My name is Yingzhen! She wanted to be her own person. She didn’t want to be “Little Shenjin” or “Weihao’s daughter” or even worse, “that girl from the corner farm”. But secretly, her younger self liked being thought of as her mother—tall and beautiful and strong. She hoped when the others called her Little Shenjin, they didn’t name her so just for her face, but rather because they also thought of her as tall and beautiful and strong. “Not nearly strong enough.” Kneeling on the riverbank, the real you spoke bitterly to the waters but received no response, neither a fleeting shadow in the corner of her eye nor a pale grey face in the lapping water—not even a rush of wind. The ghost of her mother gave her nothing. The basket baby who had been swept down this path seven winters ago gave her nothing. The basket baby. What an unfitting name for a baby girl, just another unnamed, unremembered. You’d spoken of her once or twice, but in your later years it seemed to have slipped your memory. I remembered her, though. The story stuck with me. The real you wanted to give her a name, but she wasn’t very good at words, and she was afraid that if she did, she would ruin a sacred memory. So her sister remained the basket baby, a name only she knew because she never spoke it aloud, even when she was alone. It shamed her—to call her baby sister so. It shamed her more than she could know. It shamed her because she was not knowledgeable enough to name the basket baby, the least she could have done. It shamed her because she knew she could have done more but she had done 71

nothing to stop her father. It shamed her because she had let her mother down, and after that night seven winters ago no one ever called her Little Shenjin again. Sighing, Yingzhen resumed rubbing her back and puckered her mouth at the thought of bringing the buckets back full. Both her knees were damp now as she bent over the riverbank, splashing water in her face, rubbing the oil off her skin. She was glad for the wind; in the riled waters, she could not see her face and the tiredness that lingered within its lines. They echoed only of the cycle she trod: crumbs of feed in a webbed corner, wailing wind through the splintered walls, the beady glints of spiders and cockroaches and silverfish in the night, the familiar creakgroan of the wooden floors. Yingzhen straightened unwillingly and plunged the first bucket into the water. The muscles in her arm tensed at the weight as she dumped it on the side of the bank and reached for the second, repeating the action. She fit the shaft to the rope, meaning to heft the weight onto her shoulders, but wavered as her mind swam with objections. She’d risen early from bed before the roosters’ crowing and taken the long passage to the river instead of the town well, in order to be blessed with a moment of solitude—yet thought of return had come so quickly. Pressed for time, compelled by necessity, the notion of her father’s disappointment reeling in her head, she was bound to this life. As her parents did, as their parents did, and the parents of their parents did, they would remain in Beizheng evermore. Trapped. Mirror, mirror, mirror. Hating the truth but knowing what had to be done, she heaved the yoke onto her shoulders and turned back the way she had come. She waded through the rippling sea of grass, the blades nearly at her shoulders. They swayed in the wind like water, and her mind wandered back towards the river. She pictured the basket drifting down the current, alone, unimpeded by stones in the water. It was almost peaceful. If she had been there, if word of what her father had done had reached her sooner and not in the morning after the basket baby was long gone, perhaps she would be less lonely. Maybe then she wouldn’t be the only girl in her family and she’d have someone to play with and take care of. Maybe she would comb her hair until it was glossy as a princess’s crown. Maybe they would play dress-up and weave colorful gowns of red and gold from her mother’s old threads. Maybe she would stash away Second Aunt’s sweets and cakes, saving them for the basket baby, and they would have a feast together, by themselves, without their four brothers. She would save all the good leftovers from dinner too—xiang chang pork rice, steamed buns, scallion pancakes, the special fish she’d only had once in her lifetime. Anything the basket baby wanted. Sight of the farmhouse emerged from beyond the hills and she struggled the last few steps forward, the wooden yoke rubbing unpleasantly on her callouses, her shoulders numb and bruised, her arms burning as if licked by fire. She kicked the door open, lowering the yoke to the ground, and heaved a heavy sigh at last. Rolling her shoulders, Yingzhen cursed at the pain but quickly turned her mind away. The pot of rice remained where she left it on the counter, thoroughly soaked with the water she’d saved from yesterday. She kindled the fire, letting it eat away at the wood a little as she drained the rice, then set the pot to boil. Sighing again, she turned aside, meaning to pick up the bucket she’d left on the ground—only to collide head-on into Heliang. The boy jumped and started backwards, his heel connecting with the rim of the bucket, and the water went spilling all over the floor. Yingzhen swore, throwing her arms up in the air angrily. “What are you doing here?” A nervous smile crept onto his face, which seemed even feebler with his timid posture, height and wide, gullible eyes. At twelve, he should have been taller and heftier, but he scarcely reached her shoulder. Looming over the small boy, Yingzhen seemed old enough to be his mother, though they had only three years between them. Something behind her caught his attention, and he sidled past her, glancing unhappily at the cooking rice. “Congee again?” “If you don’t appreciate my efforts, I’d be glad to let you make your own.” She swiveled around, shaking a finger at the upturned bucket. “And if you don’t clean that up, you’re not getting any. That includes replacing the water.” 72

Heliang puckered his lips and began to stamp away. “Fine! I’ll fend for myself !” “Need I remind you that you have no idea how to cook?” There was a moment of doubt before Heliang huffed in defeat and seized the bucket roughly. “Jiě-jiė…why do you have to be so mean?” “You’re not even going to do anything if you stay.” Yingzhen hefted the full bucket off to the side. “All you do is sit there and watch me work.” “All right, all right! I’m going.” Heliang shuffled towards the door, muttering a string of insults under his breath as he threw his queue over his shoulder. Yingzhen didn’t bother turning to watch the spectacle. She set the bucket down in a corner, threw a towel on the ground to soak up the spill, and turned back to the congee. She’d just lifted the lid, letting some steam escape from the pot, when her father’s condemnatory voice reached her ears. “What is going on over here?” She tensed, her back to the voice, quiet and reserved and demanding, but most of all— filled with disapproval. That was the only way she had ever known it to be. Not disapproval of Heliang, nor anyone else. No. Disapproval of her. Only for her. Alone among everyone, everywhere, that voice of disapproval followed her near and far, tracing her every step. She was always doing something wrong, but no one else was. No one else could, not when she was around. Her presence was the embodiment of a scapegoat. Turning, Yingzhen faced her father. His angular face and shrewd eyes pierced her as they always did, adorned by a crown of arched, thick brows and white hair. He looked years older than he was, his sunken cheeks tinged with ruefulness, his temple furrowed by grief and longing. But Yingzhen had no time to pity his sorrows. She would take him for who he was now and how he treated her. “Heliang spilled the water, so now he is going to replace it.” Yingzhen spoke evenly, avoiding her brother’s gaze. “Then what is the reason for the commotion?” Her father stepped forward, surveying the scene in the likeness of an inspection guard. Yingzhen crossed her arms. “He doesn’t want to.” “And why doesn’t he want to?” “Because he doesn’t want to take responsibility for his actions.” “Really?” Her father jerked a chin at Heliang, who had been lingering timidly in the doorway. “Come here.” Heliang inched a few steps towards them. “Why don’t you want to refill the water?” their father inquired. “Because,” he said haughtily, “it’s far and the bucket is heavy.” “Ah.” Their father nodded, as if that was somehow righteous. “Now that is a different story. Yingzhen, don’t you think it would be very good for you to help out your little brother? As a woman, it is your duty to serve.” Yingzhen clenched her jaw but knew better than to retaliate. “Yes.” “That’s very good to hear,” their father said. “Heliang, put the bucket down. Yingzhen will fetch the water.” Heliang mumbled a meek response and did what he was told. Their father clasped his hands together. “Now, if there is nothing else—Heliang, come with me.” Wordlessly, Heliang followed their father out of the door, casting a sheepish glance at Yingzhen. She didn’t spare him another look before turning upon her heel to face the boiling congee. A spoon in her hand, she stirred the rice stonily, impassivity disguising her hidden anger. Yet suppression never sat well with Yingzhen. Fury boiled within her veins, simmering just below the surface, then seething, churning to break through the mask. She spat in frustration, slamming the spoon onto the table, breaking off the handle, but it wasn’t enough. There was so much, so much to let out. Snapping the handle in two, she hurled it across the room, directly into the empty bucket. It clanged grimly, like the tolling bell of a funeral march. Still, not enough. She kicked the bucket, pain shooting up her leg, and kicked it again. She was tempted to destroy the entire room—knock over the congee, spill the other bucket, let the cooking fire spread until it licked up everything, the dried meat, the earthen jars, the hidden beer, the salted vegetables, the slanted shelves, everything there was. She saw herself standing in the middle of the room, the flames all around her, as if they were hers. As if anything could be

hers. Her gaze brushed across ruin, watching the spiders escape from their webs, the smoke filling the room, the fire devouring her overturned congee and turning the water into steam. The fervor died in her eyes as the vision vanished, and she opened her eyes to find herself alone. No dragons with tongues of fire, no burning shelves nor smoldering stacks of dried food, no nothing. The truth was laid bare before her—she would never be so bold as to summon the dragons within her. She would never even do so little as to throw a bowl of congee. She knew the consequences. Mirror, mirror, mirror. Remember? Yingzhen lifted her head, coming face to face with her reflection in a hanging pot on the wall. Sometimes it was not her own face that she saw, but rather her mother’s—as her father saw her—and the generations and generations before her. Perhaps once, they stared at this same pot, in the same place she was now. Their family could never get anywhere. No matter how hard they worked, they never got anywhere.

III You didn’t write my Chinese name on my legal birth certificate because you didn’t want the other children to make fun of me or the teacher to pronounce my name wrong. Dad wasn’t there on the day I was born—he was off on another business trip—and so you were left to decide for yourself, alone in the hospital room with me sleeping in a box at the side of your bed. You stared at me for a good long while, thinking about how you weren’t so sure he would care anyway, and thus—Helen, you wrote in a scrawled hand. Helen Hendrickson. Sometimes I can’t decide if that was for better or for worse; instead of struggling to pronounce my name, teachers call it, then look expectantly around the room for an answer. When I say, “here,” in that quiet voice of mine, they repeat the name incredulously, believing it to be a mistake. “You?” they say, and I nod faintly, trying to draw attention away from myself. I have inherited so much more of you than Dad that sometimes I wonder if he’s really my father after all. After a moment or two, they shrug and move to the next name, and the next, and the next, while I keep my eyes glued to the pink gum stuck to the back of the chair in front of me. There are teeth marks on it, as if someone tried to gnaw it off months after it hardened. In 1885, Tape v. Hurley outlawed the segregation of Chinese children in schools, but it was scarcely enforced. I was only attending this school because there weren’t any other Chinese children in our area; after you married Dad, you lived in his house, abandoning the little place in Chinatown. They would have insisted on my going to another elementary school farther away if it weren’t for my name. Without my face, they would never have known. “Japan?” Mrs. Miller asks me, tapping a fingernail on my desk. I nod, because I don’t know how to contradict her. “Would you so kindly tell the class about the Meiji Restoration?” Within my fist, my fingers clench and unclench themselves beneath the table. They are clammy with sweat, and I try to wipe it away on the cold table leg. “I—” My voice sounds so feeble, so helpless—the voice of a weakling. “I… I’m sorry.” It’s the only response I find fitting. I can’t even say I don’t know. I look down, unable to bear her gaze any longer. “Hm,” Mrs. Miller says. “Well, class—” She moves on with the lecture, but the clamminess on my hands doesn’t go away.

AY D E N C H I

Photography | Harvard-Westlake School, Studio City, CA

Untitled Digital photography 2020 74

Untitled Digital photography 2020 75

AMAR ACHI CHIMEZIE Play or Script | Central Bucks High School East, Doylestown, PA

1968 INT. NYC RESTAURANT BAR - NIGHT It is April 4th, 1968, approximately 7:58pm in New York City. CHARLIE sits restless in a cozy restaurant bar - one of the few newly integrated eateries in the city. A young newscaster reporting on a television screen crammed into the corner of the room details the recent shooting of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. According to the broadcaster, King has been admitted to Memphis, Tennessee's St. Joseph's Hospital in critical condition, but is - as of 7:58 - still alive. Charlie doesn't notice the television - he is a tad too focused on fiddling with a little kraft box that he holds in one hand while tousling and un-tousling his shaggy blond hair with the other. The young man taps his foot and glances at his wristwatch, slightly concerned, but with no trace of anger. The restaurant technically closes at 8. From experience, Charlie knows that the owner - besides a few quick quips and hopeful glances - will let him stay 'till about 8:06. Charlie also knows it could take anywhere from 4 to 7 minutes for his, and the girl he sits waiting for's, ritual late-night snack to be prepared - he orders right away. 2 coffees - black. 2 doughnuts - powdered. KENYA finally rushes in - tall and dark, simple, yet beautiful, projecting both grace and disarray. She scans the room for Charlie. CHARLIE (Smiling and signaling with his head for her to take a seat on the barstool next to him) I ordered already. Kenya breaks her concern to smile at Charlie's kind gesture. She takes the seat adjacent to him, but turns so that they face one another. (Warm, but distant)

KENYA

Thanks. (Playfully)

CHARLIE

Looks like someone's behind schedule today. KENYA

Yeah, sorry. I -

Charlie sheepishly presents the contents of the small kraft box he had been playing with to Kenya. I saw this in the Macy's on W 34th and thought of you...

CHARLIE

(He clears his throat) That it may be time to (Slightly annoyed)

KENYA

An American flag. CHARLIE (Confused, matching Kenya's annoyance) Are you... not American? (Matter-of-factly) I don't know, Charlie, am I?

KENYA

CHARLIE

I would hope so?

KENYA

I would too.

Kenya pauses, examining Charlie's silent response. KENYA (CONT'D) Speaking of which, Charlie, I don't think - going forward - that I'll have time to Charlie begins to shake his head, still clutching onto the opened kraft box. I don't think that I'll have time for this.

KENYA (CONT'D)

A beat. KENYA (CONT'D) My dad wants to start a chapter of the Black Panther Party. The Board has been talking about it for some time now, but given recent events, we figured we ought to facilitate the process The Black Panther Party? Aren't they a little... extreme?

CHARLIE

KENYA What? No. I mean, my dad did say that Newton and Seale - had been - in communication with Dr. King... Those riots last month were completely provoked - and it is called the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense... CHARLIE H-had been? (Re-focusing) Kenya, you don't think that the party has had a history of KENYA (Switching the subject) My dad says that our generation is the face of the movement. He wants me in charge. (Undeterred)

CHARLIE

It's just - even talking to the kids at school - a lot of us can get behind Dr. King, but the Black Panthers are, er, can be a little... much..., you know? I don't.

KENYA

CHARLIE Ken. You know I have your back, but I don't think this is the best way Sometimes.

KENYA CHARLIE (Slightly annoyed again)

What?

KENYA You have my back sometimes. Maybe with your friends, at least, but definitely not with Kenya, this isn't the time to - your dad.

CHARLIE KENYA CHARLIE (Angrily placing the kraft box firmly onto the restaurant table)

My dad has nothing to do with this. I just don't think that the Black Panther Party is the best way to go about change. You could - you could die, Kenya.

By any means necessary.

KENYA (Shrugging off Charlie's warning)

CHARLIE So you're Malcolm X now? The man who was at the top of every hit list in America for years. That's what you want? KENYA (Taking a deep, reflective breath and beginning to nod as if to convince herself ) Yes. 77

I just don't think this is what Dr. King would want. What would you know about what Dr. King would want?

CHARLIE KENYA

A beat. Kenya takes a deep breath, averting her gaze from Charlie for a second. KENYA (CONT'D) I just... why do you feel the need to keep bringing him up today of all days, Charlie? CHARLIE

Wha- today? (Retreating)

KENYA

What could you have possibly been doing to not have heard by now? CHARLIE Heard what!? Kenya, I was trying to figure out a way to tell you He picks up the kraft box from the bar and fidgets with it for a moment, beginning to reevaluate before placing it back on to the table. CHARLIE (CON'T) (Diverting from his original thought) I just - you shouldn't have to - I just KENYA You know what, Charlie? I shouldn't have to do this - I shouldn't. But I do it anyway. (Sarcastically) You don't think Ben would have loooved to be the shiny new face of the shiny new chapter of the Black Panther Party? (Back to normal voice) But you know what? He can't be, so now I have to do it. (Taken aback)

CHARLIE

Who's Ben? (Withholding)

KENYA

My brother. (Shaking his head)

CHARLIE

Elijah's your brother, Kenya. Who's Ben? KENYA

My older brother. He's dead. A beat. (Saddened)

CHARLIE

Why didn't you tell me? KENYA

It doesn't matter (Insistent)

CHARLIE

How'd he die? He went down to Selma marches in '65.

KENYA CHARLIE

How'd. he. die? (Lost in memory)

KENYA

He said he'd only be gone for the weekend. Kenya, how -

CHARLIE

KENYA

How do you think, Charlie?

The RESTAURANT OWNER walks up to where Charlie and Kenya are seated. He offers Charlie a white paper bag that holds the two powdered doughnuts and places two equally as white mugs on the table beside the kraft box. RESTAURANT OWNER You kids gotta go soon - we're 3, 4 minutes passed closing. Best drink that coffee fast. Despite their quarrel, Charlie and Kenya glance at one another, breaking their pent-up tension - they still have some time. CHARLIE

Thank you.

KENYA

Thanks.

Charlie hesitantly reinstates the conversation. CHARLIE I just don't want to the same for you. KENYA

That's not your decision, Charlie.

They both sit with their own thoughts for a moment. KENYA (CONT'D) As I was trying to say before, I don't think I'll have a lot of time to... goof off anymore. My dad wants me in charge and so I have to CHARLIE

You have to or you want to?

KENYA

What's the difference?

Charlie shakes his head in confusion. KENYA (CONT'D) I want to do anything I have to do, if it's for my community. Music begins to quietly ring out of the television set propped up in the corner of the restaurant & bar. Charlie and Kenya are too engaged in their conversation to notice. NEWS REPORTER (ON T.V.) Direct from our Newsroom in Washington. In color, this is the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite and Russ Hodge in Memphis, Tennessee CHARLIE

I understand, I just But Charlie, this isn't about you - this isn't even about me.

KENYA

NEWS REPORTER (ON T.V.) Dan Rather in New York, Bernard Kalb in Saigon, Marvin Kalb in Wellington, New Zealand, and Burdett in Khe Sanh, South Vietnam. CHARLIE

But -

KENYA You do know you can think about things outside of yourself, right? The television program switches from the generic, disembodied news reporter to the voice of famous American broadcaster, Walter Cronkite, who solemnly, but professionally, begins to speak to the American people. Good evening. Doctor Martin Luther King -

WALTER CRONKITE (ON T.V.)

CHARLIE Kenya all I've been able to think about for the past couple of weeks is you WALTER CRONKITE (ON T.V.) The Apostle of non-violence in the Civil Rights Movement KENYA No, Charlie - all you've been able to think about these past couple of weeks is me with you. That's not the same thing. 79

CHARLIE

Kenya Has been shot to death in Memphis, Tennessee.

WALTER CRONKITE (ON T.V.)

Charlie and Kenya break from their argument, whipping their heads toward the television set and then back to each other in disbelief. CHARLIE

Oh my God.

WALTER CRONKITE (ON T.V.) Police have issued an all-points bulletin for a well-dressed, young white man seen running from the scene. KENYA

No...

WALTER CRONKITE (ON T.V.) Officers also reportedly chased and fired on a radio-equipped car containing two white men. Dr. King was standing on the balcony of a second-floor hotel room tonight when, according to a companion, a shot was fired from across the street. In the friend's words, "the bullet exploded in his face." W-when did this... When did this happen?

CHARLIE

WALTER CRONKITE (ON T.V.) Police, who have been keeping a close watch over the Nobel Peace Prize winner because of Memphis' turbulent racial situation, were on the scene almost immediately. They rushed the 39-year-old Negro leader to a hospital where he died of a bullet wound in the neck. KENYA (In shock, on the verge of tears) They had - I thought - he was just at the hospital getting help an hour ago... WALTER CRONKITE (ON T.V.) Police said they found a high-powered hunting rifle about a block from the hotel, but it was not immediately identified as the murder weapon. KENYA (CONT'D) I... I gotta get back to Harlem. The Board's gonna wanna meet. CHARLIE

Kenya, wait We'll talk later, Charlie. I just, I really have to go.

KENYA

WALTER CRONKITE (ON T.V.) Dr. King had returned to Memphis only yesterday, determined to prove that he could lead a peaceful mass march in support of striking sanitation workers, most of whom are Negroes. Dr. King had this to say last night about the situation in Memphis: Kenya squeezes Charlie's hand lovingly, but apologetically before rushing out the restaurant door. Kenya! Wait!

CHARLIE The television program switches from Cronkite's voice to that of the late DR.KING's.

DR. KING (ON T.V.) Maybe I could understand the denial of certain basic First Amendment privileges because they haven't committed themselves to that over there. Charlie tries to rush after Kenya, but in his haste he pushes the kraft box, along with the American flag pin inside, off of the table and onto the restaurant floor. The pin shatters. DR. KING (ON T.V.) But somewhere I read of the freedom of assembly. Somewhere I read of the freedom of speech. Somewhere I read of the freedom of press. Somewhere I read that the greatness of America is the right to protest for right. The Restaurant Owner, taken aback by the sound, comes over to check on Charlie. Hey, kid I- I was just leaving.

RESTAURANT OWNER CHARLIE

END OF PLAY. 80

JENNIFER CHIU Short Story | White Station High School, Memphis, TN

Gravity BLACKBERRIES Jackie says that the reason I get so attached is because my parents don’t love each other. She spits this out over a mouthful of blackberries, and when I look up, her teeth are the faintest stain of bruise. The bowl of blackberries is empty—she’s eaten the last one, and the bottom of the white porcelain drips a ring of water onto the rug. I focus on this detail. “What do you mean?” “Think about it. They haven’t spoken to each other in days. They’re so busy avoiding each other—” She reaches for another blackberry, but her hands only skim empty air, “—that they completely ignore you. And that’s why you have attachment issues.” “I do not have attachment issues. And I’m sure they love each other. They’ve already stuck it out this long—that has to mean something.” Jackie scoffs. “My parents are still together, but that means nothing. It’s painfully obvious that they only got married because of me. Time is meaningless; it only shows you that everyone is a fucking mess. The more time you spend with someone, the more you start to see all the cracks, all the flaws. Then every little thing starts to fall apart. Haven’t you ever spent so much time with someone that you started to hate them?” I watch the condensation drip onto the rug. The stain bloats like a halo. ORIGINS Somehow we’ve still held on to the old VHS tapes Baba recorded when he was still into videography. He’d always liked the idea of having everything pressed permanently onto film and tucked away for a keepsake. Memory. Now, I push the dust into the roof of my mouth and think relic. There are so many of them, each one labeled in his messy handwriting. They only span a few months, the days glossing between my fingers. Mama used to joke that Baba could never keep up his commitments, that he cast everything aside after a short while—he considers it a virtue: his constant search for something new, something better. He sheds the past the way a butterfly does a chrysalis, always filled with hope that he’s changed. That he’s moved on to something new. I pick up his fossils in the mornings, the VCR player whirring when I press play. The video is blurry and grainy, but in the frames I can still make out Mama’s hands wrapped tightly around mine as she teaches me how to ice skate. She liked the ice rink because it reminded her of winter: the bracing air painting her cheeks red and turning her every foggy breath into frost. The metal of her skates flush against the rink, cutting angles into everything. My mother, all edges, vertex pressed against vertex, and she ended up here, in Memphis—in this lukewarm city where everything spills into itself, pooling shapeless onto the asphalt. The air muggy and spitting mosquitoes, and streets melting into tar in the summers. It was Baba’s idea to come here. He likes summer: how slowly everything moves in the heat, the days viscous and dripping gummy between his fingers. In Memphis, time feels stretched-out, longer somehow. A day is a year. A year decades. In this way, he loved my mother for centuries. MOMENT OF INERTIA Every once in a while, I drive to the outskirts of the city and trace figure-eights around the perimeter of the ice rink. Mama is too busy to come anymore—she hasn’t visited in years—and Baba never liked the cold in the first place. Without them, the air is colder, emptier. It bites into my cheeks and leaves me shivering. I set up my phone to record videos; 82

it films me practicing axles and lutzes and flips. After the jump, the brief moment of floating, there is always the fall: gravity, my one constant. I fall again and again and again—I am always falling. My knees bruised and slathered with indigo and sangria, and falling no longer hurts. At night I replay these videos in slow motion, flicking over every frame and scrutinizing each mistake. It’s easy to dissect myself this way, reduce a body to physics: a change in a moment of inertia, a shift in the center of mass. Easy to blame things on the laws of physics—it’s not my fault that he’s not texting back or that Lisa won’t pick up. That Mama doesn’t look me in the eye when I catch her before she leaves for work. If I focus on these frames, maybe then it’s not Baba I hear stumbling through the front door in the early morning, not an unfamiliar perfume I smell on his shirts when I throw them in the washer. My vision tunnels, and I burrow into every technicolor pixel. By the time I fall asleep, my eyes have run dry. CONTACTS There are so many blank contacts on my phone: names I saved and deleted over the years. There’s no way to remove them all at once. I scroll through every contact, backspace every letter until all I’m left with are rows of numbers that I don’t recognize anymore, a ghost town of default contact photos and read receipts. It’s mocking—the gray background, the avatar both faceless and nameless. I’m too scared to delete the messages; I need the evidence, proof that even for a moment, someone loved me. So there are blue messages and blue messages and blue messages. Mostly, I send the same things to everyone. hey. hey, have u heard this song before? oh im sorry to keep u up late. hope i wasn’t bothering u, i ramble so much lol. are u busy?did i say smth wrong, why aren’t u responding anymore? I reimagine myself a mailman and seal every envelope tight, the edges sticky and splicing sacrifice on my tongue. These are the words that I couldn’t say in person, so I repaint them in pixel and ink, hoping that they might reach someone. Every corner licked with a stamp, and I riddle the mailbox with red flags. It’s 2 A.M., but I send him an incoherent text filled with typos and grammatical errors anyway, the one contact I haven't rendered nameless yet. His name chokes in my throat, and I wait for the status to turn to read delivered before I close my eyes and wait for the ping of a reply. FREE-FALL I had my first kiss in the supply closet of the physics classroom. We’d been dating for three weeks then—his name was Andrew/Allen/Alex, something beginning with an A. I don’t keep track of the names anymore; there are too many of them, and it’s easier to forget a face. Instead, I let the letters drip thick and translucent down the drain and the syllables tumble onto the streets as litter. I imagine that in another city, a stranger might pick them up and salvage what remains. Baba always told me that landscapes change over time—in decades, would these streets choke with all the names I threw away? My physics teacher never taught me that love exists in a vacuum, but like every good student, I found out through experimentation. Once you start falling, you cannot stop. Once the boy sitting across from you smiles and whispers I think you’re cute. There is no air resistance, nothing to keep you from accelerating into his arms, which are pasted dusty in sunlight filming through the dirty window. Andrew/Allen/Alex’s lips sticky on

mine, smelling of burnt summer, broken AC, rusty metal, and choked dust. Or maybe that was just the supply closet—everything blurs together now. POST-CREDITS Before Andrew/Allen/Alex there was a string of fleeting crushes, the boy I had calculus with, the barista at the coffeeshop whose dimples showed every time he smiled, the boy who’d promptly apologized when he bumped into me on the street. Every time I’d hoped maybe this is it. This is how I meet my soulmate, like all the rom-coms and movies and romance novels I gorged myself on. They’re enviable, the main characters. Sundress pleated innocence and soft curves, their limbs melting into each other’s. I dream of picnics and walks on the beach, but the truth is that I only know the coldness of the ice rink. How the cold cuts into my skin. It still shocks me how easily they can say I love you to someone they’ve only known for hours, but I know too that I’d throw in my everything for a chance at love. It still shocks me how easily I can say I love you. I spam <333 in the text box, fill my vocabulary with heart emojis and ily and ilysm. My phone lights up with a notification from Daniel: ur so sweet and positive, ily <3. It’s what he likes best about me, he says, my willingness to give and love and care. i try <33. did u listen to the song? My heart beats as I hit send. Daniel is not the first, and he will not be the last, but I hope anyway.

When I wake up again a few hours later, the house is silent except for my footsteps over cold linoleum. The vent whirls and blasts frigid air, and I know that Mama’s turned the AC up high again. I shiver and pull a sweatshirt over my head.

UNRAVELING Sometimes the story goes like this: there were three girls who clung sticky to each other, their fingers cloyed with honey, bodies threaded together. But this is not the coming-of-age movie I wanted to watch. There is no happy ending. When one of them leaves, no one is left to suture the gaping wound they left behind. So the other two continue to cling sticky, their blood thickening and bruising into gauze. I know that things were better when Lisa was still around. If she were still here now, we wouldn’t be unraveling like this, Jackie and I. Perhaps I got the story wrong: that there are not three girls, but just two tied together by string. Now there is no string, and we are spinning in collision. Jackie says it’s not our fault. That Lisa’s just too sensitive, cowardly. I don’t tell her that Lisa was the one who consoled me through every breakup, who I called at midnight crying. I don’t tell her about the text that I’ve memorized every word of. Sometimes I want to respond and type and type and type, but I always end up deleting it. There’s nothing I can say, so I read it over and over again even though I’ve already spoiled the ending. The moral of the story is that I’m scared that Lisa’s right, that love can break a relationship. That there can be too much. That I am too much, give and ask for too much, but it’s the only way I know to love someone: to give them everything and hope that they might reciprocate. Once your foot slips off the platform, there is no way to stop falling. TIMELAPSES My mother’s voice wakes me up followed by a quieter rumbling—the first time I’ve heard my parents speaking to each other in a while. All the words hinge on a sense of deja vu, recurring memories cut up and spliced. “You reek. Where were you last night—what is it this time?” The faucet turns on, and my mother’s voice wavers under the gurgle of water. “—another corporate party you think that I don’t notice but your breath always smells of fucking alcohol and I see all the things she leaves behind and I know—” Her words are cut off as the coffee machine whirs, and I imagine the beans grinding to pieces. This is how things fall apart: blades cutting, everything crumbling at once. “What does love have to do with anything? Of everyone, you—” The scent of the coffee beans wafts upstairs, and I latch onto the smell. Earthy, warm, soft. “Every few years, it’s someone else, isn’t it? First me then—” Her voice pierces the hum, then is pulled under. I check my phone—no messages, Daniel hasn’t replied yet. Mama keeps yelling, but her voice fades into the background. It’s almost soothing, this struggle between Mama and the coffee machine—I wonder how many times I’ve fallen asleep to it and slipped back into a dream. 83

M E LO DY C H O I Poetry | Valley Christian High School, San Jose, CA

Garaetteok In Gyeonggi-do I am always three, sitting naked with slivers of cucumber on my nose bridge, reaching for a rice cake. Grandma’s calf is clotting (too much honey in her diet: diabetic motherly love). At the kitchen she is roasting the small snowy cylinder on the pan as it melts. Garaetteok: another adjective for the consummation of soft and crispy: a shell’s underside, bite-proof, overprotective of its fleshy foot. Somehow I am finding myself within a rice cake and the fading aftertaste of grainy sweetness, seeing it’s all a part of me, like the honey and sesame oil secreted from Grandma’s food (my skin), glistening skillet (my eyes, honey-lathered). There is no one substance I am made of: the sweetness interwoven with the pores of my cheek: always sticking to me, always sticking to other people, always staining.

Today We Wake Up Chosen After The Rite of Spring by Igor Stravinsky I. Introduction (The Adoration) Spring: our fingers intertwined like tendrils on a branch. This land is waking up & I see you are waking too, eyelashes sticky with last night’s tears crystallized like honey, or maybe rain. Maybe your eyes are the sky, raining. You, synonymous to this earth, soon to become one, fossilized in sacred choosing. Your face brighter than the sun & still alive: I want to hold you, to immortalize you inside me. You wake. I won’t. I let this land have you. II. Spring rounds: Tranquillo When you dance forget the seed between your one last let the sprout & fruit in

please two

rain your

don’t planted knees prayer fall blood

III. Danse de la terre The man has touched the fertile land. The man has touched you. You are living. You are awake in this dance. You are the dance. You are giving birth to the dance. You are giving birth to all life. The man restores with his aged fingertip. He has touched you. You fertile thing. You life. IV. Mystic circles All the girls want to be you encircled looking up sin sprinkled sky your pupils: oceans become it testify who dies next lives first scream in song in salty blood I live in you & you must die next V. Danse sacrale It is night & you are dying by dancing: a divine desire. Your figure, a faithful flower in mourning. O flowering. O ever eternal. Every ripped limb multiplying this sacrifice holy. I wake to cracked blood, fertilizer of fields for tomorrow’s food: all remnants of you. I wake to all of us eating your flesh. Tomorrow I will touch the earth you sank into: scabbed land, birthplace of your skin. I will wake & watch & wear this soil.

MCKENNA CHRISTIANSEN Visual Arts | Lovejoy High School, Lucas, TX

Sport Gessoed canvas suspended behind 2 layers of translucent paper, charcoal 2020 86

Teacups Individually bagged pieces of family teacups shattered in a controlled manner 2019 87

KIERAN CHUNG Novel | Harvard-Westlake School, Studio City, CA

Elysium Chapter 1 Jay hadn’t slept in three days. He never slept more than a couple hours a night, but this was unusual even for him. Maybe it was the nightmares, or the fact that a new batch of prisoners was arriving at Daedalia tomorrow, but his body refused to shut down. Fortunately, he’d felt his energy levels spiking at dinner and moved tomorrow’s appointment up to tonight— which meant that instead of running laps or sparring against an invisible partner all night, he actually had something productive to do. He looked up at the artificial sky projected onto the dome surrounding Daedalia. Four of the nine central stars were in alignment, and a fifth was almost in place. Beck should have been here by now. Jay hadn’t befriended the nineteen-year-old boxer for his punctuality, although a little more discipline would be nice. Still, he found himself bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, throwing mock punches into the air, to ease the impatience coursing through his body. “Yo. Tucker.” Jay turned around. Beck stood behind him in the soft starlight, leaning against House I with his arms crossed. “Where have you been?” Jay asked. “What, no hello?” “I told you to be here half an hour ago.” Beck made a guilty face. “Oops. Anyway, the rest of us can’t walk out for a midnight stroll like you, you know. I got held up.” “We talked about this. You can’t be late all the time.” “You know what?” “What?” “I’ma outlive you. Just out of spite. I’ma outlive you, and then maybe I’ll finally get to sleep in. And you’re gonna look down at me from the heavens—” “Beck.” “—and you’re gonna see the effect of your ruthless tyranny upon the three worlds.” Jay rolled his eyes. “You’re infuriating.” A wide grin broke across Beck’s face. The two of them clasped hands and closed in for a brief hug, slapping each other on the back. Beck was half a head shorter than Jay, and his cloud of dark curls scratched at Jay’s nose and cheeks. Most of the prisoners in Daedalia let their hair grow out, although haircuts were offered once a month in the dining hall. In contrast, Jay kept his head shaved. It made him look cleaner, more in control. Made him stand out. “So, are we going?” Beck asked, glancing past Jay’s shoulder. “If Sergeant Martin hasn’t already left.” “You mean, if I didn’t sleep too long.” “If you hadn’t slept so long, we’d already be done, and you’d already be back asleep. Funny how that works.” “Funny,” Beck repeated wryly. Jay set off at a brisk pace along the curve of the dome. He headed west, away from the main cluster of buildings, until they crossed the scoria field used as a parking lot and arrived at the construction site. He gestured to Beck to step over the dragging yellow caution tape. In front of the entrance were two yellow hard hats. Jay put one on and prompted Beck to don the other. The project may have been abandoned years ago, but it was still a construction site, and he didn’t quite trust the gods to save him if an iron rod went through his brain. 88

He maneuvered around half-welded beams and screws strewn across the ground—raw wood in some places, Martian dust in others—listening to Beck’s footsteps land surely behind him. It took about a minute altogether to reach the center of the construction site. By then, Jay had shifted ever so subtly into character. They ducked under the final obstacle, a bundle of metal rods suspended between two platforms, and emerged into an unfinished execution chamber. The room was about three feet square, furnished with a single metal chair with wrist and ankle restraints. Jay held almost all his appointments here—one, because there was no surveillance, and two, because it always caught his targets off guard. He was comfortable in a prison cell. They were not. Sergeant Martin was still in the room by the time they arrived, thank the gods. The middle-aged mod was standing in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself, looking supremely uncomfortable. Excellent. “What’s this?” Martin demanded in a furtive whisper. She gestured at Beck, who looked completely out of place with a cool smirk on his face. “You said you’d come alone.” Jay shrugged. “Insurance.” “Insurance,” she scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean? If I say something you don’t like, your sub will thrash me?” “Oh, no, no, no. I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself.” He met Martin’s alarmed expression with perfect composure. “Let’s get to business.” “Uh—yes.” Martin stuck out her hand. “The money.” Jay tried to conceal his annoyance and reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of cash. Martin made a move for it, but he held it high above his head. “You keep your subs away from House K,” he said in the same even tone. “They have no right profiting from us.” “More than they already are,” Beck said. “More than they already are,” Jay amended. “You made the matches a public event,” Martin said. “There’s nothing illegal about my subs casting bets on your wrestlers.” “I don’t recall coming here to negotiate.” She sighed. “Fine.” “One thing you’ll find about me, Sergeant Martin, is that I never make empty threats. If I find even one Elysian footprint in the ring...” “You’re looking at an ass-kicking in your very near future,” Beck finished. “Let’s just say an early retirement is in store.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jay caught Beck mouthing ass-kicking with exaggerated slowness. He pressed his lips together to stop himself from smirking. This time, Martin’s response was more subdued. “Understood.” “You don’t speak to anyone about this. You don’t mention me. As far as you’re concerned, this night never happened.” “Yes, fine.” She grabbed for the cash again. He stretched his arm up higher. He had a good eight inches on the mod, but heavens forbid she catch him with his guard down. “Don’t spend it all at once. A sum like that’s bound to draw suspicion.” “It’s not that much,” she muttered. With a warning cough from Beck, Jay forced his hackles to lower. Martin didn’t know it had taken him weeks to amass this much money,

much less the lengths he had gone to in order to get it. Just like every other self-righteous mod in Daedalia, she liked to ignore the fact that Jay was technically a prisoner of war. After making Martin wait a few more seconds, he finally handed over the money. Although parting with such wealth gave him the jitters, he stayed as still as he could as he watched her fold the stack of bills in half and shove it in her coat pocket like a used tissue. “This was—good,” she said. “Thank you for meeting with me.” So she was capable of humility. “I would prefer not to have to repeat this conversation,” Jay said. He rubbed his palms together. Oh, how his body itched to go for a run. “Make sure your subs know what isn’t theirs. If you’re incapable, I’d be happy to step in.” Ass-kicking, Beck mouthed. “Have a good night,” Martin said. Jay nodded once, then turned and began the long trek back toward the houses, Beck following half a pace behind. Beck managed to contain his laughter until the two of them were concealed by House H—at which point he doubled over, howling. Even Jay started to snicker. “Did you see the look on her face? Oh, I can do that myself. Oh, I don’t recall coming here to negotiate. How do you come up with that stuff ?” A lot of early mornings. Brainstorming while you’re sleeping in. “I don’t know,” he said, grimacing. “The delivery was all wrong. Being late threw me off.” Beck slugged him in the arm, and Jay staggered into him in retaliation. “Are you serious? You owned her. She was terrified of us.” “My goal isn’t to make people terrified of me, Beck.” “Works, though.” “Come on. It doesn’t always work.” “Name one time.” Jay must have taken too long thinking about it, because Beck elbowed him in the ribs and crowed, “Ass-kicking!” to the domed sky. “You don’t stop shouting, you’re gonna get us both in trouble.” He glanced at the sky. “Look, it’s not even halfway to two. You have time to sleep if you want.” “Nah, I’m too pumped up.” Beck took a few bounding leaps around Jay to emphasize his point. Then he stopped. A slow grin spread across his face. “Want to spar?” Beck asked. “No. Absolutely not.” Jay pointed at House C, on the opposite side of the forum. “I’ll see you in the morning.” “Come on,” he begged. “For old times’ sake?” Pause. “You know I don’t have much time left. You wouldn’t deny a man his dying wish, would you?” Jay raised his eyebrows. “You’re dying? I’ve been here a year and eight months! Statistically, I should be ashes by now.” “Statistically, you’re Jaylen Joseph Tucker, the untouchable. The rest of us start counting down the second we start year two.” He imitated a pendulum with his finger. “Tick, tock, Tucker. My days are numbered.” “Quit that.” Jay slapped Beck’s hand down, and Beck danced away, hooting with laughter. “You’d better get to sleep,” he told him. “It’s late, and a van’s coming in tomorrow.” “It’s early,” Beck corrected, “and I don’t feel like sleeping. And I know you don’t feel like sleeping. So the real question is, why are we standing around, negotiating something we both already know you’re gonna do?” Jay almost walked away right then, but the itch in his body stopped him. If he ordered Beck to return to his house, Jay would probably stay up running laps until first bell. Maybe this was what he needed to wind down. He hadn’t had a good fight in weeks. “One fight,” he said. Beck whooped, jumping up and down. Jay forced himself to commit. After one fight, he would resist temptation and make Beck go to bed. He took up a wide stance by the back door of House H. Beck bounced over to a spot a few paces away, dropping into a slight crouch and raising his fists. “Ready when you are,” he said. “I was looking forward to beating someone up tonight.” Jay beckoned with two fingers. “Come at me.” Beck advanced and threw a quick jab, then danced away, grinning. Jay blocked his next two punches. While Beck was preparing for a fourth,

Jay suddenly drove forward. He used his left arm to keep Beck at bay as he hammered punches into his stomach. After a few seconds, Beck called it, and they broke apart. When Jay signaled for the next round to begin, Beck came in strong and fast with a one-two. Jay ducked under the second punch and threw a right hook, catching him in the left side. He swung again, but Beck leapt back too quickly. His next attack was more guarded. Jay didn’t bother to counter with more than his forearms. He let Beck catch his breath before driving him back with a right cross, then two hits to the body in succession. Beck blocked his next punch and ducked, switching stances to get inside Jay’s longer reach. He threw low jabs until Jay jumped back. They both resumed their stances, fists shifting in front of them as they darted in and out, neither of them throwing more than a couple punches at a time. Beck started to bounce on his toes. “Come on, hit me!” He lunged forward. Jay fended him off, then retreated to his spot. Beck laughed. “What, you scared? Student surpasses the master?” Jay raised his eyebrows. He feinted left, then landed a blow to Beck’s left side. He knocked Beck’s hand away and drove another combination into his chest, pressing him back. But Beck refused to back off. They grappled until Jay called the round. “You want to beat me?” he said. “You’ll have to wait to beat my corpse.” Beck snorted. “I’ll wait, old man. At this rate, you won’t make it to twenty-two.” “At this rate, I’ll drop dead of boredom.” Jay raised his fists. “Last round. Set.” This time, Beck didn’t go on the offensive immediately. They circled each other, each searching for an opening. Jay waited until they had rotated halfway around the circle. Then, despite Beck’s strong defense, he advanced, backing him up against the wall of House H. He threw two fake punches—then lunged forward and pressed his forearm against Beck’s throat, pinning him against the wall. “You gonna kiss me, Tucker?” Beck teased, though his expression was sullen. Jay counted to five silently in his head, then stepped back. They shook sweaty hands. “Remember to return to your stance. Don’t get too caught up in the moment.” “Don’t go all pedagogue on me, man. I know what I’m doing.” “I trust you.” He looked up at the sky. The sixth star was in place—it was past two o’clock. “You better get to bed.” “I take it you’re not sleeping tonight?” “Too much going on. I’ll sleep tomorrow,” he said. “See you in the morning.” “You mean in three hours.” “I mean in three hours.” He pushed Beck again. “Get some sleep, and wake up ready to greet the new arrivals.” “The one part of my job I actually enjoy.” Beck raised a hand in farewell. “Night.” “Goodnight.” Jay watched Beck cross the courtyard to House C, skirting the shadows. The itch in his body had weakened, but his head was still buzzing. He had at least three things to work out before first bell, and a thousand different thoughts were pinging around in there, making it impossible to think. If he wanted to get any work done, he would have to get his blood pumping. He sighed and took off running. Chapter 2 First bell ripped through Daedalia, rousing the thousand-some Olympian prisoners from sleep. The sky shifted almost instantly from night to a brilliant, cloudless morning. Most of the domes on Mars were programmed to vary the weather, but as far as Jay knew, Daedalia hadn’t had a gray day in history. Or a sunrise. Within a minute, people started streaming out of the houses. They walked in pairs or trios, speaking in hushed tones, avoiding eye contact with the guards and mods milling about. There were generally about ten minutes between first bell and roll call, during which all of Daedalia was 89

gathered in the central forum. Those ten minutes, Jay had found, were the perfect time to recruit. Jay ran through the information he’d gathered on his first target. Christian Ko, he/him, age 23. Two siblings, both in labor camps up north. Born in central Olympus, but grew up in the mideast—Jay made a mental note to shift his dialect accordingly. He had arrived almost a month ago, but he seemed to be keeping his spirits up. House K was in constant need of people like that. “Heyo, friend,” he greeted as he approached. Christian turned around, startled. “Heyo, Jay.” “Just wanted to see how you were doing. You’re adjusting well?” “Well as I can,” he said. “Y’all are friendlier than I’d—well, than I expected.” Jay smiled. “You’ll find, I think, that the rumors about Daedalia are outdated. The admins don’t want people to know how good we’ve got it here.” “Imagine that,” Christian said. “You’ve got friends?” he asked. “A few.” “You’ve heard of House K?” “Heard of it. Wasn’t sure what it was, exactly.” “Lucky for you, I’m the resident expert on House K. And I can assure you it’s simply a community like any other. You might think about it like a support group.” “Sounds nice,” Christian said. Jay clapped him on the shoulder. “Tell you what, friend. Why don’t you come to the matches tonight? Fourth bell, behind House K.” Christian stood up a little straighter. “I’ll be there.” “Looking forward to it.” He cast a cursory glance down. “You’ll make a better impression if you tuck in your shirt.” He left Christian to fumble with his clothes and moved on. He guessed it had taken a minute or so, which meant he might be able to get a few more recruits if he budgeted his time. Next on his list: Neve Aubrey, they/them, age 16. An aspiring filmmaker from central Olympus, Neve was a happy-go-lucky kid who’d been one of Jay’s best storytellers until they stopped coming to House K a few days ago. He worried they might resist a conversation, but they greeted Jay warmly. “How you been?” Jay asked, slipping into a more natural speech pattern. “I haven’t seen you in a few days.” “Sorry, Jay. I’ve been real preoccupied. I can come tonight.” “Yeah?” “For sure.” “That’d be great,” Jay said. “The kids miss you.” Neve cracked a smile. “I’m sure they do.” “Alright.” His head felt lighter already. He was two for two and ahead of schedule. “Well, I gotta go, but it was good to catch up with you, and make sure to come—” He was interrupted by a shriek from the opposite side of the courtyard. A guard was struggling with one of the younger prisoners, no older than eight. Jay recognized them from the most recent van. They were clutching the leg of a stuffed bunny. As he watched, the guard yanked the bunny from their hands and ripped its head from its body. The child burst into tears. “Shut up!” barked the guard. When they didn’t, the guard drew their baton and cracked it into the side of the prisoner’s skull. The child fell to the ground, motionless. A tiny plume of dust puffed up where their body had fallen. Beside him, Neve winced. The kid hadn’t even declared yet. Thankfully, none of the other new arrivals reacted and got themselves killed. Jay continued on his rounds for a few minutes until the order came: “ASSEMBLE FOR ROLL CALL!” In an instant, the low conversation fell silent. The Olympians shuffled to the courtyard with their heads cast down. Guards kicked and shoved prisoners who lagged behind or looked up for too long. Within a minute, all of them were arrayed in neat phalanxes in the courtyard. The speakers crackled. “ATTENTION!” General Walsh shouted from the front. One thousand hands went to one thousand brows. Backs straightened, shoulders stiffened. They held the salute while the Elysian 90

national anthem played—all two minutes, forty-three seconds of it—until Walsh shouted, “AT EASE!” and they relaxed. The guards released black, spherical drones into the airspace above them. The drones took up position, one for each square of twenty-five Olympians. A low whirring filled the air. After each drone finished scanning its block, it blinked green and emitted a bright chime, then returned to the hands of its owner. Jay counted the dings, his hopes rising with each one. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine. Neve was holding their breath. Just one left—the drone hovering above their own heads—and then they’d be in the clear. No such luck. The last drone flashed red. A few groans. Neve cursed to themself. A second of radio chatter, and then all attention turned to House A, where Camp Director Senex was standing in front of the door, looking positively jubilant at the prospect of personally doling out punishment to the Olympians. He lifted his gun and fired. Neve buckled to the ground. Jay forced himself to stay still, to keep his eyes forward. He could feel his body begin to tremble, but he pressed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth in resistance. The immediate danger of showing a reaction muffled the shock to a degree. All his focus was on restraining the itch, making sure he didn’t fidget, shuffle his feet, flex his hands. Any motion was seen as a threat, and although the admins were unlikely to slaughter him as carelessly as they had Neve, they had the power to disband House K at the first whisper of rebellion. And while Jay could bear martyrdom, he wouldn’t let the admins unravel his persona. There were too many people who relied on him. The camp director holstered his gun. As he began his inspection, Jay prayed that nobody would do anything idiotic. The prayer was mainly directed at Beck—he acted out so often that he was lucky to be alive. But any of them could be next, really. Jude, who’d been so scared to start her first work detail without her older sister. Daniel, who’d had his declaration party back in December. Their bodies jerked and fell in Jay’s mind, became bloated, started to reek… Jay gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to bring his hand to his face. Not now. But Beck didn’t move, and neither did any of the other frequent troublemakers. Jay kept his breathing slow, controlled. No sudden movements. No weakness. Senex stopped in front of Jay. His critical gaze traveled up and down his body, looking for something to condemn today. Eventually, he jutted his finger at Jay’s chest and rasped, “There’s blood on your shirt. It’s unprofessional.” Jay nodded respectfully, keeping his face a blank slate. Not now. Blessedly, the rest of the inspection passed without incident. Within minutes, steaming vats of breakfast had been set up in front of the dining hall. The Olympians sorted themselves into five single file lines. They each received a glob of oatmeal in a tin bowl from a stack that looked one wind gust away from crashing down. Luckily, there was no wind inside the domes. As always, the other prisoners made room for Jay at the front of the line. Carrying his breakfast in one hand, he entered the dining hall and took his usual seat at a long table in the corner. Soon, his friends joined him: Beck, Vera, and the twins, Sam and Kye. As Kye launched into a long diatribe about how PSCs were the most convoluted invention in the history of humankind, Jay let his attention wander. Beck saw her enter at the same time he did. Aria Altham, looking pitifully out of place in Elysian military dress, her blond hair held back by navy clips. She held a tray of food that made even Jay’s mouth water—fruit, bread, and cold cuts on a paper plate. The prisoners nearby were already casting scornful glances toward her—her food, her hair, the healthy fullness that permeated her every move. She kept her eyes cast down, her lips twisted into a scowl. Ari rarely came to the dining hall, preferring to eat in her room in House A. Jay found himself on the edge of his seat, ready to leap up at a moment’s notice. He didn’t know why Ari had come here today, but it was a rare opportunity that he couldn’t waste. Ari paused for a second in the doorway, then set her jaw. She started to move forward, her fingers clenched tightly around the edges of the tray, heading for the table in the opposite corner where the other Elysians were sitting.

Beck stood up, putting a finger to his lips to signal silence. He crept up behind Ari, barely containing a fit of giggles, as Olympians turned to watch with mild interest. Finally, when he was right behind her, he reached out—then froze as Ari turned to glare at him. “You know I can hear you, right?” She spoke quickly and quietly, like the corners of her mouth were taped together. “Ooooooooh,” Sam said. Even Jay stifled a laugh as Beck blustered his way through an excuse and hurried to sit back down, his face and neck darkening with a furious blush. Ari’s military-issue boots clicked against the floor as she continued toward the Elysians’ table. It was that sound that put his circle off from her, Jay knew. Well, it was a lot of things. But that sound—those hardback shoes, that navy-and-gold coat with the name Altham on the front—it was a constant reminder that she was the enemy. Jay stood up, pushing his bowl to the center of the table. “I’m going after her.” “Again? Are you kidding me?” Beck said as he surreptitiously slid the bowl to his side. “Kid’s a lost cause. Plus, she’s Elysian. Plus, I don’t like her very much.” “She’s an asset. Once I’m gone, we won’t have any more connections to the admins. But Ari is an authority among the Elysians. Her support is just what House K needs.” Beck shrugged and lifted Jay’s spoon to his mouth. “If you say so.” Jay turned and headed for the Elysians’ table. Behind him, he heard the leg of a wooden bench scrape against the floor as his friends scooted over to watch. He saw Ari’s body language shift when he was barely halfway across the dining hall. Gods. Her hearing, her acute awareness of her surroundings, was too good to be wasted on maps and haptic games. Combined with the access she had as the Prime Leader’s sister... it was almost too good to be true. If he could actually get her on his side. Ari was in the middle of a conversation with Dr. Park when he arrived, toast half-eaten in one hand. He nodded at the doctor. She ignored him. He kept a tight rein on his features, balling his frustration up in his stomach. No weakness. It would be idiotic to cause a scene—especially at a table full of Elysians, surrounded by armed guards. He cleared his throat instead. At least Ari had the grace to look over. He opened his mouth, but Ari beat him to it. “I said no, Jay.” “I didn’t even—” “I can use context clues, idiot. There is one reason you ever try to talk to me.” “That’s a fair point. But Ari, I really think I can change your mind about this.” “Yeah, I don’t really do that whole changing my mind thing.” “Just give me five minutes—” Jay cut off at the sound of the bench scraping violently against the floor. “Whatever,” Ari said. “I’m out of here.” She stepped around him and headed for the door, leaving her tray where it was. Jay groaned and followed behind, his sneakers somehow sounding ten times louder than Ari’s shoes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his circle get up from their table on the other side of the dining hall and start in his direction. He palmed a coin into the hand of the guard at the door to let him leave. The guard would probably have let his circle through too, but they didn’t try, lingering just inside the doorway. Ari paused. “You really don’t give up, do you?” she called over her shoulder. He could have sworn he heard a tinge of amusement. “I’m not known for it, no.” “No, you aren’t.” She tapped her foot twice, as if deliberating what to do. Then she sighed. Turned around. “Go finish your breakfast. Your lackeys are waiting for you.” “Then I’ll get to the point,” he started. “House K—” “We’ve been over this.” “If you just let me explain myself—” “What, so you can rope me into one of your insane, dangerous schemes?”

“When have I ever done anything dangerous?” She didn’t miss a beat. “When you stockpiled food in the labyrinth to test how long you could survive down there. When you ran yourself half to death calculating how fast you were. Your meeting with Senex last week, when Uriah got shot. Last night, with Lila Martin. You’re constantly risking everyone’s lives, and you don’t even realize it.” Neve’s bloodied body flashed in Jay’s head. He bit the inside of his lip. I do realize it, he wanted to say. But you don’t understand. This is the only way. “How do you know about last night?” Jay asked. “It was one in the morning.” She shrugged. “I don’t sleep well.” “I didn’t see you.” “You know your eyes only point one way at a time, right?” He ignored the jab and carried on. “This is exactly why we need you at House K,” he said. “You have valuable skills. You could really make a difference for us.” Ari laughed, low and dark. “Yeah, I’d get you all killed.” “You wouldn’t.” “Hey, I’m just reporting the science, man,” she said, raising her hands in mock defense. “I know the numbers. One hundred twenty-seven out of two hundred thirty. Fifty-five percent—” “Ari.” “Fifty-five percent of injuries in the First Office were my fault.” A pause. “You gotta stop doing that.” “Can’t blame a girl for obsessing over the one thing she can actually remember clearly.” “Those numbers aren’t—this isn’t even what we’re talking about,” Jay said. He forced his jaw to relax. “I’d like you to come to House K.” She groaned. “We’ve had this conversation a million times.” “You’re bound to give in eventually.” “Look, you don’t control me, Jay! I outrank you by—we’re not even on the same level. You have no power here—” “You do know who I am,” he said, letting a little indignation leak into his voice. She snorted. “Who? Jay Tucker, undefeated? The patron saint of Daedalia? Survivor of the Rim? I know what they call you, Jay. Comparatively, you’re a little underwhelming.” “Better than what they call you.” Her face fell. A twitch rose to her jaw. “I’m not letting you manipulate me,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m not letting you use me, like you use everyone else in Daedalia. Maybe Olympians don’t give a damn about other people, but I refuse to be your political pawn.” “Olympians?” A second passed. Then her eyes widened in realization. “Jay, I—” “Guess you were right,” he said, turning to go. “This was a waste of time.” “Come on, Jay, don’t—Jay—fuck!” Jay sped up his pace, resolving that he’d make up for his lack of restraint later. Part of him wanted to go back and apologize. But the other part wanted to knock the living daylights out of her, and he didn’t trust himself not to follow that part. Beck slung an arm around his shoulders as he reentered the dining hall. “Like I said,” he told him. “Lost cause.” “She’s capable of making life so much better for so many people,” Jay said, shaking his head. “And yet, she refuses every time.” “Some people are just like that, you know? Rich people got no morals.” Jay started to speak, but Beck cut him off. “It’s a scientifically proven fact, Tucker. Their brains are wired different. They don’t share our values.” They reached their table in the corner. Jay shook Beck’s arm off of him. “There’s got to be a way to reach her. I just gotta think of a better— did you eat all my oatmeal?” Beck ignored his blatant theft. “Why are you so fixated on Aria Altham, anyway?” he asked. “It’s not like it would make much of a difference. And like I said—” “Lost cause, I know.” Ultimately, Beck was right. Chasing after an unwilling recruit was a waste of Jay’s precious time. But the itch 91

had started up again, telling him to finish this job and finish it right— whatever it took. Before Beck could speak, second bell rang. Guards herded the Olympians out of the dining hall and back into the courtyard. Once they were all assembled, they were ordered to split off into their work details, distinguished by different colored patches on their right shoulders. There were fourteen groups in all, most of which were sent off each morning to perform meaningless tasks around camp. If you behaved well, you could be moved up to a detail working in maintenance in the kitchens. If you acted out, and you were lucky enough not to be executed on the spot, you were sent down into the labyrinth to mine. With black patches on their shoulders, the miners had the shortest lifespans of all the prisoners in Daedalia—but they were also the toughest. Those who weren’t here as punishment had been handpicked upon arrival as the strongest, the most skilled, the ones capable of wielding a pickaxe in total darkness. These were the people Jay targeted for House K. The survivors. And indeed, they had come to form a community under his leadership. The miners greeted each other brightly, in contrast to the dull, vacant stares of some of the other prisoners. As they shook hands and hugged, Beck came bouncing up to Jay. He elbowed him in the side. “Hey, Tucker. Why aren’t you on kitchen duty? You got the status.” It was the first line of a routine they performed every morning. Originally devised to keep up morale among the miners, they now used it to officially mark the beginning of each day. “I volunteered,” Jay said. “That’s crazy talk. What kind of guy volunteers to be on labyrinth detail?” “The kind of guy you can trust,” Jay said. “You still want me?” Beck nudged him. “Hell yeah.” Now that the ritual was over, a cluster of younger kids crowded around Jay, updating him on everything that had happened since they’d last seen each other yesterday. He laughed and shushed them, inclining his head toward the admin heading their way, flanked by two guards. The Elysians led the detail of miners past the forum, to the three lifts leading to the mines of Daedalia. Again, they formed three single file lines. Then, ten Olympians arrayed themselves on each lift. One of the guards cranked a winch at the side, and the lifts started to descend. Jay always joined the third and last group of prisoners to be lowered into the labyrinth. Vera and Kye stood to either side of him, with Beck leading the first group and Sam the second. Once all eighty-nine miners—plus Ari, who hadn’t so much as looked at Jay since breakfast— had stepped off the lifts, the guard started to crank the winch again. As the lifts returned to their places, the miners looked up, shoulder to shoulder, unwilling to turn away just yet. From below, each lift glowed with a border of daylight that grew thinner with each creaking turn of the winch. Finally, the lifts slowed with hydraulic precision and hissed into airtight seals with the rubber frames set into the tops of the caves, leaving the miners in complete darkness.

CARO LI N E CO E N Novel | Pacific Grove High School, Pacific Grove, CA

The Ghost Tree Chapter 1 1790 The wind blew against my cheeks as I weaved between trees. The encroaching darkness didn’t stop me; I could still make out the surrounding silhouettes of the forest. I was winded from running, but the burning in my lungs didn’t sting. The slamming of the soles of my feet against the rough ground didn’t hurt. Running felt like freedom, and the crashing of the waves sounded like the praise of my deceased tribe. They’d never had the opportunity to return home, so I was here for them, back in the wilderness. The clanging of bells shook me out of my reverie. The Fathers know I’m gone. I couldn’t allow them to catch me. Any minute, the search parties would leave the mission, spreading out in all directions. They’d certainly send more toward Monterey. The Fathers wouldn’t be able to understand why someone would run from civilization, as they called it. In the distance behind me, I heard a shout. Exclamations filled the air, and I understood that one of the search parties had found my discarded skirt. They were on my trail now, so I forced myself to pick up my pace. The land slanted downhill and my legs spun through the air. I was no longer in control of my body, but I had to keep running despite the wobbly feeling in my thighs and calves. I was confused when the trees suddenly became sparser, replaced by shorter shrubs. Then panic overtook me, as sharp and biting as the air. It had been years since I’d been here, and I’d forgotten about the stretch of beach at the bend in the coast. The rocky cliffs were turning into an expanse of sand. On the beach, I’d be exposed, and the fading light might still illuminate my silhouette. I cursed the fact that fog was more prevalent in the mornings than in the evenings. The dawn’s mist would have concealed me. Seeing no other option, I barreled down the slope and beyond the tree line. The sand was gritty between my toes and the air was immediately saltier. Rotting kelp, a calming scent of home. Simultaneously soothed and terrified, I pumped my arms in time with my rapid breathing. Running in sand was a thousand times more challenging than running on the hard-packed dirt. My feet sank deeper with every step, and the rotation of my legs slowed. My heart felt heavy as it worked harder and harder, but I reminded myself that the situation could be much worse. When I was a child, we played many games, and my little sister Patti had chased me across the sand and into the ocean, the only place more difficult to run than in the sand. Patti had splashed behind me into the water, and I’d scrambled forward into the tide until, eventually, I couldn’t stand. I’d swum frantically from her, spluttering salt water as I laughed. For a few moments, the ocean had given me strength, and I’d felt like the most powerful Rumsen girl in all of history, more powerful than Coyote from my mother’s legends. But then I’d lifted my head to find that Patti was no longer in pursuit. Calling out to me, waving her arms in the air, she waded close to shore, a shore that I was nowhere near. The current had carried me deeper and deeper into the ocean’s powerful embrace. “There! We found her!” The victorious shouts of my pursuers echoed in the night, yanking me back into the present. I risked looking over my shoulder, and, gleaming at the edge of the trees, was the light of three lanterns. Could I make it across this beach and into the cover of the trees in the hills ahead of me? Would I be out of the Fathers’ reach? My instincts responded negatively. Even if I managed to hide through the 94

night, the Fathers would look for me until they either dragged me back to the mission or I was dead, which is what had happened with my older cousins. Until I was dead. Until they thought I was dead. I changed direction and ran straight for the ocean. The sand turned cool and wet under my feet, and then I was in the water. Energy coursed through me, helping me ignore the frigid temperature and the fact that I hadn’t been in the ocean since the day the tide pulled me from shore. Helping me ignore the fact that this time, there would be no Uncle with his fishing boat to save me. He, along with the rest of my tribe, had left these waters forever six years ago. The indignant cries of the Fathers faded away as my ears submerged, and I forced one thought to dominate my mind: swim. Swim and swim and swim. They’d never follow me. They’d assume that I’d die at the mercy of the ocean. They’d be correct, unless I could harness the ocean’s power to carry me around the rocky point and then far down the coast. Eventually, I could clamber onto the shore, the shores of my tribe’s original land. Home. Swim. Swim. Swim. I chanted to myself, remembering the way my father and our fellow tribesmen had done before the hunt, and I heard voices join in all around me. Swim, my playful otter. My Atsia, my mother. Swim. Patti. Swim. My cousins. Swim. Uncle. Time blended together, and I pushed onward. Although my limbs were numb and fatigued, I gathered the power of my tribe and allowed it to buoy me. Finally, I rounded the point and headed diagonally toward a small beach. Filled with renewed energy, I pulled my arms through the water. I’m going to make it. I’ll make it. Make. It. The water grew shallower. My feet brushed the soft sand, and I heaved my tired body up onto the beach. And as the waves crashed and the tide rushed gently around me, I knew I’d succeeded. For my tribe, I’d ensured that the Fathers would never find me. Exhaustion pulled me under like the tide pulls the kelp below the waves. Chapter 2 When I remember the beginning of the end, like I often do, it always starts with Patti. The two of us were sitting in our hut, weaving baskets out of tule. Our Atsia was teaching us both to weave, but I, being two years older, was learning much quicker than Patti. “Tighter,” I instructed her. “A fish could slip through those stitches.” Patti pouted. “Could not.” “Here.” I scooted across the ground to guide her hands. She scooted further away, throwing her unfinished basket on the ground. “Weaving with you is no fun. I want to go play instead.” “No, Patti. You can’t. Atsia said so. We’re supposed to both watch Puruuric.” I gestured to the sleeping bundle on the mat beside us. Atsia was out with Grandfather, the shaman. Our heritage as the grandchildren of the shaman was what had inspired Atsia to give her three daughters our names. Nooy, Patti, and Puruuric were medicinal plants. “I don’t care.” I shook my head. “We’ll both get in trouble.” “I don’t care.” “Please stay. I won’t correct your weaving anymore.” “Hmmpf.” “I’ll tell you one of Atsia’s stories.” Patti hesitated. “My favorite?”

I nodded. “Fine.” She plopped herself back on the ground beside me, but she didn’t pick her basket back up. That was good enough for me. “After the world was made, Eagle, Hummingbird, and Coyote stood at the top of a mountain, just a ways from here. The water was rising quickly, so Eagle carried Hummingbird and Coyote until the flood finally ended. Eagle said to Coyote, ‘Coyote, you must climb down the mountain to be sure that the water is gone.’ When Coyote returned with the news that the land was dry, Eagle told Coyote to go to the river. Soon Coyote returned with the news that there was a beautiful girl there, and Eagle told him to marry her. Before leaving, Coyote asked Eagle how he was to raise his children, but Eagle wanted to test Coyote and wouldn’t give him the answer. Hummingbird answered correctly, saying that Coyote must raise his children with his wife. Hummingbird’s response made Coyote look like a fool, and he wanted to kill Hummingbird. But Eagle protected Hummingbird, telling Coyote to go ahead and find his wife. Coyote obeyed, and—” “And he and his wife had a child, the first of the Rumsen people. Coyote and the girl, they are our Ewshai, our ancestors,” Patti finished. “Would you like me to tell another?” “Wait. You forgot the ending. Tell me why we don’t live near the mountain anymore.” I sighed. This ending wasn’t part of the legend. It was something Atsia had added when we were small. “All right. One day not that long ago, Coyote’s people were living close to the mountain when a group of bears settled nearby. Coyote’s people tried to live with the bears’ presence, but eventually the bears began eating the people. So Coyote’s people had to leave their mountain and move further down the coast. And that’s where we are today.” Patti clapped her hands together. “Tell another, tell another!” Before I could respond, there was a commotion outside our hut. I heard my father’s and Uncle’s booming voices rising angrily in the air. Another voice interrupted theirs, equally ferocious and foreign. He spoke our language like an Esselen would. “Shhh,” I whispered, putting a hand on Patti’s shoulder. “These are not worth half of what you promised they were. The abalone tools we gave you are worth twice as much as these poorly-made tule baskets. A fish could slip through these sloppy stitches,” the Esselen man said. “How dare you insult our craftsmanship and our honor! These baskets are of the finest quality, made by our skilled Rumsen women,” my father, my aha’ya, said. No, I thought. Those baskets were made by my little sister. We never should have begun teaching her the art of basket weaving at the same time as me. Atsia should have allowed Patti to wait until she was ten, like I did. “You lie. You have baskets that are of much finer quality. We Esselen cannot abide you encroaching on our hunting grounds any longer if you can’t even keep your word.” “That land is ours,” Uncle exclaimed. I motioned to Patti to stay put, and I inched carefully to the entrance of the hut, peeking my head out from behind the tule wall. Outside stood aha’ya and Uncle with their backs turned. My three oldest cousins, Uncle’s sons, stood behind them. I vaguely recognized the Esselen man as the leader of the closest neighboring tribe. He, too, was supported by kin, and although they all faced me, their eyes were trained on my aha’ya’s. All except one. A boy who couldn’t have been more than two years older than I stared at me. I gasped and ducked my face back into my hut, but not before I registered his haughty eyes and sneering expression. “Your decision to lie to us about the quality of your baskets has forced our women to venture far from our village to gather tule for their own baskets. We shall conduct no more trade with your people. And if you dare enter our hunting grounds…. Must I have my son demonstrate his skills with the bow?” the Esselen leader asked, motioning to the sneering boy, who now held his chin up proudly. “That won’t be necessary. We shall hunt in the grounds that are ours,” Uncle said. Puruuric’s cry pulled me away from my eavesdropping, and Patti and I turned to tend to her. At ten years old, I didn’t fully comprehend the

significance of the confrontation I’d just witnessed, or the impact it would have on my life. ***

Two weeks later, I sat on a rock at the center of our village with Puruuric’s cradle on my back as I awaited Atsia’s return. She’d been gathering medicinal plants all morning. Various kinsmen wandered about the clearing, coming in and out of huts, sharpening arrows—going about their usual business. Just as I was growing impatient, the rustling in the trees behind me grew louder. Finally, Atsia’s back, I thought. I readjusted Puruuric on my back and stood up, turning to meet Atsia and exchange my charge for a basket of medicine. As I approached the tree line, the rustling grew louder, but it wasn’t Atsia who came bursting from the redwoods, out of breath. It was one of my older cousins, shortly followed by a second. “Get the shaman,” the first boomed, his voice echoing through the village. “Quick.” I shook my head. “He’s out collecting plants with my Atsia. He’ll be back soon.” “Soon isn’t quick enough. There’s been an attack.” “An attack?” I repeated. He didn’t respond. Behind him, shouts echoed from the forest. Seconds later, a group of four other kinsmen came into view, a fifth body suspended between them. At this point, the whole tribe had begun congregating in the clearing. Cries of anguish filled the air as the injured man’s closest relatives rushed forward. Having heard the commotion, Atsia and Grandfather emerged from the trees. My older cousin ran to them in relief. “Shaman, our kinsman has been shot by the Esselen people. Please, heal him.” Grandfather thrust his basket into Atsia’s hands, and the two hurried over to where the four other hunters had rested the injured man on a tule mat, which someone had brought from a hut. I removed Puruuric’s cradle from my back as I watched the frantic attempts to remove the arrow from the man’s chest and stop the blood flow. Grandfather’s calm countered the terror of our people. Prayers and shouts and murmurs filled the air, but I knew Grandfather worked best when everyone else was quiet. Silence finally arrived with aha’ya. He and Uncle came running into the clearing, and an instant hush fell over the tribe. “What has happened?” aha’ya demanded. My older cousin approached aha’ya and Uncle, a solemn expression on his face. “The Esselen people followed through with their threat. They shot one of our hunters.” “That land is ours,” Uncle growled. “Indeed,” aha’ya agreed. “It is time.” Then he raised his voice loud enough for the whole tribe to hear. “The Esselen people have drawn first blood. They have attacked one of our own on our land, and they may arrive imminently to continue their work. It is our duty to retaliate, to defend our land. Men, gather your weapons. We leave now.” At aha’ya’s words, a spell broke over my people. Men ducked into the sweathouse to grab their weapons and women rounded up children to bid their fathers, brothers, and cousins farewell. I stood frozen in the middle of it all, terrified and unwilling to leave my Atsia’s side. My aha’ya was going to fight for our honor, defend our territory. And I couldn’t push from my mind the image of him in a pool of blood like this man before me. “We didn’t gather anything to stanch the bleeding,” Grandfather addressed Atsia. “Quickly, my daughter, go fetch something.” No, I protested inside. Atsia shouldn’t leave this clearing, not right now. But she nodded obediently. “We’re going to need many more medicinal plants than we have gathered to help the men who will soon be injured.” I hadn’t thought she’d noticed my presence in all the chaos, but then she said, “Nooy, my playful otter, find Patti. Watch your sisters. I won’t be gone long.” I nodded, and then she was dashing off into the forest. I turned, redirecting my attention to my search for Patti. I couldn’t believe that she wasn’t in the clearing. When I eyed the group of cousins that she’d been playing with, I counted all of them except her. Where was that silly girl? I had one idea. Returning Puruuric to my back, I headed toward the cliffs. The walk wasn’t too far, just a ways beyond the clearing and 95

our huts, but it took much longer with Puruuric’s additional weight. Patti’s favorite place was in a tree that stood alone on the rugged cliffs overlooking the ocean. Sure enough, when I arrived, there she was, perched precariously in the tree. “Patti,” I called to her. “What are you doing up there?” She turned her head and glared at me. “I’m on lookout. In case the Esselen come.” So she did know what had happened. “But the Esselen would come through the forest, not by boat. They could never scale these cliffs.” “You don’t get it. Their lands are further down the coast, across the inlet. If they decide to come, they’d have to come from there, and then I could see the rustling of the trees and warn everyone.” “That makes no sense. Come down from there. Atsia wants the three of us to go sit in our hut where we’ll be safer.” “No. I’m staying here. I’m going to be the hero, and then aha’ya will be so proud of me.” “I already told you he wasn’t upset about the loosely-woven baskets.” Patti was silent, staring determinedly out at the coastline. “Please, Patti. We have to do as Atsia instructed.” I stood pleading with an unresponsive Patti because I couldn’t just leave her. Finally, after ten minutes, I admitted defeat. “Fine. Have it your way. But Atsia is going to be very angry.” As I turned my back, I swore I heard the whooshing of a volley of arrows coming from the direction of our village. I made it five more steps before I heard the battle cries and the screaming. It took me no time to figure out what was happening. Our tribe was under attack. Somehow, the Esselen had either broken through or circumvented our defenses, and they were raiding our village. Horror writhed in my gut. Aha’ya. Uncle. My cousins. Had something happened to them? Patti put two and two together, too. Fast as a fox, she scurried down the thick tree trunk. “How did this happen? I didn’t see the trees rustling.” In different circumstances, I would have gloated. Instead, I stood frozen in shock for a split-second as the sounds of footsteps rapidly grew louder and Patti made a move toward the village. Regaining my senses, I yanked her back by the hair and tucked her into my side. “No.” If Patti went back, my instincts told me she’d run directly into a pack of angry Esselen men. “They’re coming,” I whispered. “There’s nothing we can do but hide.” Ewshai? “I want to fight.” “You can’t fight grown men.” Just beyond where we stood, we heard shouts in a language that wasn’t our own. In mere seconds, they’d burst through the trees, and we’d be in their line of sight. This seemed to relieve Patti of her delusions. “Quick.” She dragged me around the back of the thick trunk of her tree. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and reached a hand to my back to touch Puruuric, hoping she’d remain quiet. The Esselen voices grew louder and louder until I knew the men were on the other side of the tree. Patti and I held our breath and curled into ourselves, trying to become as small as we could. It felt like an eternity, but their footsteps finally echoed in the distance, and their voices faded away. The screams of our fellow villagers faded in the background until all was silent. Only then did we dare move. Holding hands, Patti and I tiptoed back to our village. The destruction was overwhelming. Our huts still stood, but baskets and otter furs and abalone tools were strewn across the clearing. The silence made it seem like a land of spirits, a land of our Ewshai. Not even the birds were singing. Tentatively, Patti and I approached our hut, peeking our head into the opening to ensure it was empty. Indeed it was, but it was emptier than when we’d left it. Our stores of food were gone, and so were our woven mats. My eyes welled with tears. Our hut couldn’t be the only empty one. How many hours, how many resources had gone into all that had been stolen from us? Had our fellow villagers survived? Were my parents alive? There was nothing for Patti and me to do other than sink down on the barren floor of our hut and wait. After some moments, Patti spoke. “How. Could. They?” Before, I’d interpreted her silence as fear, not anger. I shook my head, stroking Puruuric, whose cradle I’d moved to my lap. She slept softly. I was both grateful and surprised that she’d stayed quiet this whole time. Perhaps even her year-old brain sensed that we’d been in danger. “It’s not fair.” 96

“I—I’ll kill them.” “No, Patti. Leave the revenge to the adults.” Patti sat in silence for a moment, fuming. Then she asked, “How can you just sit there, doing nothing?” I didn’t respond. “You never do anything!” “There’s nothing to do.” Patti stood. “I’m not going to be like you.” She made a move for the hut’s exit. I understood with dawning horror what my reckless, eight-year-old sister intended to do. “Are you crazy? It’s still dangerous out there!” The last thing she said was, “I’m going to track those men down,” before dashing out. Indecision raged in my head. Two sisters, both of whom I was charged to protect. One, running toward a group of belligerent neighbors three times her size. The other, asleep on my lap, no more capable of taking care of herself than a sea otter pup. But if I left now, I could drag Patti back here and tie her up with tule before she got too far away. Puruuric would only be alone for a minute or two, and I had to act. Gently, I placed Puruuric on the ground and ran after my idiotic sister. As I left the clearing, I felt as though eyes were watching me, but I shrugged off the tingling sensation. I had a sister to catch. Patti may have been small, but she was quick. She’d already disappeared by the time I left the clearing, but I knew where she’d headed. The ground blurred under my feet as I wound through the forest, back toward Patti’s tree. My mind was so fixated on my goal that I almost ran straight into aha’ya’s chest. Skidding, I stopped myself, and he reached out to steady me. “What are you doing?” he asked. “What are you doing?” I asked, confused at his sudden appearance but relieved to find him alive. “The Esselen have stopped fighting. We must hurry back to the village. Where are your sisters?” I hesitated. I knew he wouldn’t want me leaving Puruuric alone, but he’d be angrier to hear that I’d lost Patti. “I left Puruuric in the hut.” “No. No. No,” aha’ya muttered, breaking into a run. I scrambled to keep up with him. “It was only for a minute,” I huffed. “Patti had run after the Esselen. I had to stop her. Puruuric is fine.” “She’s not fine.” He shook his head, lips tightened. Aha’ya didn’t even struggle to speak as he ran. “During the battle, the Esselen got word that the Spanish had arrived at their village. They’ve kidnapped their youngest children and taken them to their establishment.” No. No. No. The feeling that I was being watched. Puruuric. My stomach filled with dread, and all thoughts of finding Patti disappeared from my head. I’d chosen the wrong sister. When aha’ya and I rounded the bend, entering the village, my worst fears were confirmed. We were too late. There, in the center of the clearing, stood two light-skinned men in long robes. Their heads were shaved, and none of our traditional tattoos marked their faces. I ran right past them and into our hut. One foreign man took my cry of anguish as a cue to speak in his language, a tongue I didn’t understand. But aha’ya and I, along with the other men who’d trickled in behind us, could interpret his gesticulations. He’d taken her to his people’s dwelling. Puruuric was gone. Chapter 3 The light-skinned men looked rather pleased with themselves as they stood in our clearing. I couldn’t bear to give them more than a glance. “We must follow those men, aha’ya,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. “They will take us to Puruuric.” Aha’ya nodded, running his fingers through his hair. “But we must wait for your Atsia and the rest of our kinfolk to return first. We have strength in numbers.” “But—” I started. “These men are powerful. We do not understand their ways. Hush and do not worry. We will go for Puruuric once our people have gathered. The tribe will not stand for the loss of our youngest member.” Aha’ya was distressed, but a good leader always remains calm. He’d ingrained that

in me since the day I was born, despite the fact that I was not to be our future chief. The subsequent minutes that passed were the longest of my life. Villagers slowly returned, and their expressions transformed from relief to horror as they learned the news. Finally, Atsia stepped into the clearing, the last, other than Patti, to return. I hung my head in shame so I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. I had failed my family and my tribe. Aha’ya spoke first. “It has happened.” Atsia expressed her horror for only a second. “It was bound to at some point. We’ve known for years.” She didn’t speak to me until the entire tribe was mobilized to leave, which took some time. I knew the walk to our old settlement near the mountain was long, and this walk would be even longer. As aha’ya glared at the foreigners and motioned that we were ready to follow, Atsia pulled my chin up, forcing our gazes to lock. “You lost one sister. Let’s hope you haven’t lost the second. Has Patti returned?” Aha’ya had already explained the reason I had unknowingly abandoned Puruuric to the foreigners. “She’s still in the forest.” “Wait for her. Follow if she comes quickly, and if not, you two must remain here and await our return. It will likely be two days.” I nodded because I couldn’t test Atsia’s patience, not now. But I had to go with them. It was my responsibility to rescue Puruuric. I waited for Patti for a few minutes, and then I tiptoed off behind my tribe. Patti had caused this mess. If she was terrified when no one was home when she arrived, she deserved it. I hurried to catch up with my people, and then I kept a distance, ducking behind tree trunks to stay out of view. My legs were exhausted by the time we reached our old village in late afternoon. As we walked further, I was surprised to see that the villages of former neighboring Rumsen tribes appeared abandoned. The trees slowly petered out as we walked downhill, turning into coastal shrubs and then golden sand as time passed and the sun began to set. I couldn’t help but stare at the backs of the Spanish kidnappers’ heads. They were incongruous amongst my tribe, and Atsia had told me stories about them. Back when I was very small, when our tribe still lived on our old land, we’d traded with them frequently. Atsia said we’d relocated here because of them. Their influence over the other Rumsen tribes around us was growing, and we needed to move to preserve our culture, she’d claimed. I’d gotten the feeling that she wasn’t telling me the whole truth. These days, Atsia and aha’ya only talked about the Spanish under the cover of darkness. They spoke in hushed voices, and they didn’t know that I could just make them out from my sleeping mat across the hut. Recently, aha’ya had said that the Esselen had established contact with the foreigners. He’d sounded upset, and Atsia had sounded worried. I wondered if this perhaps was why. We passed back once again into the trees and began a slight uphill climb, and then we finally approached the elaborate Spanish complex. In the fading light, it was like nothing I’d ever seen before. The walls were tall and light yellow with small windows. The architecture was angular, and the roof was made of pale red tiles. At the entrance, we stopped in front of the tallest of the buildings, and I ducked behind a bush. This building was even grander than the others, and two towers stood on either side of it. There was a small cross-like symbol atop one of them, and I jumped when a sudden clanging sound emanated from somewhere beneath it. One of the robed men called out in his language, and the tall brown doors opened in front of us. Leading my tribe, my aha’ya hesitated. There, facing us, inside this odd structure, were the Esselen people. Aha’ya held out a hand, signaling for us to stop. My older cousins assumed a defensive stance, but none of the Esselen made similar movements. Aha’ya understood why before I did. He led the tribe inside, and I pressed myself up against the exterior wall, right beside the door. Carefully, I peeked in. There, at the front of the room, was a large basin. Beside it stood more men in robes. I looked closer and sucked in a breath as I noticed that the man on the left was holding Puruuric. And next to him, three others each carried his own tiny bundle. The children of the Esselen. As our foreign guides joined their comrades at the front of the room, they began speaking in unison in their language. Then, one by one, the men holding the children stepped forward and, dunking a hand into the basin, dripped water over the child’s head.

I stared, transfixed. This does not seem malicious. These men move slowly and speak in soothing voices, I thought. I wanted to know what they were saying. After the ceremony had ended, the leading robed man met my aha’ya’s gaze and beckoned him forward. Aha’ya was clearly just as confused by this turn of events as I was. He stood cautiously and proceeded to the front of the chamber. My heart sang as the man holding Puruuric held her out to aha’ya. He reached forward eagerly, but the man pulled Puruuric back, gesturing to the basin of water. The message was clear: aha’ya had to undergo the same ceremony as Puruuric if he was to retrieve her. Aha’ya was more skeptical than I of the water—it was just water; there was nothing scary about water unless it was deep—and he shook his head angrily. In our language, he demanded loudly that they return his daughter to him. When they didn’t respond, he moved suddenly toward her, but the foreign men were prepared. Individually, none of them would have been a match for aha’ya, but together, those who weren’t holding children restrained him as my people cried out in protest. The man holding Puruuric, followed by the men with the other babies, scurried through a door in the left wall. “No,” I cried out. He couldn’t get away with Puruuric. I ran into the chamber, barely registering my tribe’s exclamations of surprise as I cut down the aisle toward the man who had my sister. Another robed foreigner grabbed my arms, dragging me up toward the basin of water. They could dump their water on my head. I didn’t care. I just wanted my sister. So I let them, ignoring the protests of aha’ya and Atsia and Grandfather. The water was cool on my forehead as they recited their words. It was over almost before it started, and then I was escorted into the room where Puruuric had been taken. As I exited the chamber, I registered the sound of its big brown doors slamming shut, trapping my tribe and our enemies inside. But nothing mattered to me in that moment other than my baby sister. I ran over to the foreigner with her in his arms and stuck my own out, putting on the bravest face I could muster. He acquiesced to my nonverbal request, delivering Puruuric to my arms. Relief flooded me as I held her to my chest, grasping her little hand in mine. Now that I had Puruuric, I turned to return to my parents in the main chamber. It was time to go home. The foreigners had other ideas. Three of them moved to block my path. I was trapped. But soon, I understood why. These robed men wanted to dump water on our heads. Until every member of my tribe and the Esselen tribe agreed to permit it, those of us who had already undergone the ritual would be held captive. Through the shoulders of the men blocking my exit, I glimpsed the water basin. Aha’ya stood facing me beside it, straining futilely against four robed men. “Aha’ya,” I called. “I have Puruuric. The water is okay. Let them dump it on your head. Then we can be together.” Aha’ya nodded. He eyed the basin suspiciously, but, for his daughters, he reluctantly stopped struggling. He allowed himself to be turned toward the basin, his head lowered into it. The foreigners chanted again, and the water trickled down over aha’ya’s forehead. Aha’ya had approved the foreigners’ ceremony. As he was led toward me, Uncle, Atsia, and Grandfather approached the basin, our kinsfolk lining up behind them. Soon only the three robed men in the doorway separated me from aha’ya, but they wouldn’t allow him to pass yet. Instead, they pointed to the rest of our kinfolk. We had to wait for them to all accept the water before we were reunited. As more of our people left the basin with damp heads, the Esselen joined the line behind their leader. But from my angle, I could see that the chief ’s son, the one who’d sneered at me so long ago, was not lining up. He stood at the back of the chamber, glaring at the foreigners. The Esselen chief noticed his son’s reluctance just as I did. “Asanax,” he said, commanding the boy to join him. Asanax huffed but obeyed, dragging his feet toward his father. Before long, the line had shortened, and most of the Esselen were standing beside my people. Tension circulated the room, crackling between enemies turned grudging allies by unusual circumstances. Asanax had managed to slip from his father’s view and had relocated to the 97

back of the line. Finally, it was his turn, but he refused to step forward. A foreigner extended a hand to him, which he didn’t accept. Again, his father scolded him, “Asanax!” When two foreigners grabbed his arms to drag him forward, Asanax had had it. As the rest of us stood transfixed, he kicked and yelled and squirmed. Since my aha’ya, no one had put up a fight. One robed man grimaced as Asanax jabbed his rib, but that was the extent of Asanax’s success. There was another exclamation of “Asanax!” and his head was dunked in the basin as he spluttered. The foreigners recited their chant faster than ever. There was one word that they’d said over and over again in the past few minutes: baptismo. I figured that was what they called this ritual. But it was finally over, and the men standing in my way moved. I ran straight toward aha’ya and Atsia. Placing Puruuric in Atsia’s arms, I embraced both parents. Our family, except Patti, was back together. As they herded us out and into a courtyard, it took me a minute to realize that these robed men weren’t freeing us to return home. In this large outdoor square, enclosed on all sides by buildings, stood many people who looked just like me, except for the clothing on their bodies and the hollow quality of their eyes. They stood in sharply divided groups, Rumsen separated from Esselen, males separated from females. And there were many more of the foreigners that had been inside the chamber with us. Five of them held long pieces of material that matched the clothing on the fellow natives, and they began thrusting them at both Rumsen and Esselen women, who were then shepherded to the far side of the courtyard. I screamed in protest as I was once again torn from aha’ya’s side. He and Uncle and Grandfather were taken with the men to the opposite end of the courtyard. As I began to cry, I got one final glimpse of my male kinsfolk as they were herded away. Next to them, Asanax shot his father an expression that said, without glee, I told you so. With a sinking heart, I understood that the foreigners had never intended for us to leave. They were the bears from Atsia’s story, I realized, and everything clicked into place. This was what had begun to happen to neighboring Rumsen tribes when I was younger. This was why our tribe moved from our old lands to ones further from this trap. The Fathers must have been planning this for months. We were their prisoners, and they’d lured us here with our babies, knowing we’d do anything to retrieve them. I closed my eyes. Patti’s face flashed like lightning across the inside of my lids, branding itself there. When I remember the beginning of the end, like I often do, it always ends with Patti. Translations: Atsia = mother aha’ya = father tule = a bulrush plant used for weaving Ewshai = ancestors

M E E R A D A S G U P TA Spoken Word | Stuyvesant High School, New York, NY

explaining brown girl feminism to a white man on the e train “Like other woman writers of my class, I am expected to tame my talent to suit the comfort of my family.” -Kamala Das, Quotes for The Modern Indian Woman’s Soul brown girl feminism. a phrase that blisters tongues not keen on holding asian spices; changes the name of this poem to a white man’s lament in masala tears. but this rickshaw has no room for another man spread. or the venti chai latte that he says looks like you. masticate me like the cardamom in a pakora. spit it out onto a paper plate only to sprinkle salt back into its diaspora. makes it savory. pick ancestral bone. from chicken curry. but when you swallow. let history be hookworm in a gut engorged by self-entitlement. make it enough for you to tell me that i am caramel popped into working jaws. honey. i sizzle like mistake. rise like steam off of the bombay sidewalk. what is milk to chile pepper? all you seem to do is curdle in the marinate. as i froth over kettle. cleave origin from clavicle. ascend like the smell of grandma’s kitchen into drying linens. i am of borrowed taste-buds. voodoo queen in the cupboard. girl born into a body that is pressure-cooked in a nature versus nurture tawa. sorry. i spilt tea on your white privilege. and sliced too much meat off of his bones. but i thrive in culinary. which means no food waste. so i place him in a dusty cabinet elsewhere. atop life. slick oil stains. and cinnamon rolls. some days spooning powdered pieces back into trade recipe. he is but ingredient. eternally searing in the heterogony that is my mother’s homestyle biryani.

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my poems as victims of gun violence this is where my poems go to pen their eulogies. they bleed a black ink and find a casket that blends well with the ground. i do not know if my poems prefer gardenias or roses. the rapid firing of a gun leaves my poems bloated with sudden death, judgement, a narrative in which they don’t have a name. america remembers the anniversary of my poems’ memorial. lights a candle but forgets that my poems are not love poems. my poems are students tearing up the streets in their new air jordans. are teachers holding the big apple in the palm of their hands. are janitors mopping the floor of the mess that other poems have left behind. my poems aren’t bulletproof. my poems bury friends before they bury themselves. my poems sob when dissecting frogs in biology class. have gloves on so the blood can’t streak their hands in transaction. my poems love their mamas. still kiss them on the forehead before going to bed. my poems shot a fizzy glass of white privilege before it shot them in the forehead. my poems pray to god sometimes. my poems reread horoscopes. my poems do not pretend to know the future, so they walk to the horizon and stay there. shatter the sky until their bodies parch the light of their names. dance in the shadows until they are but one writhing black mass in the distance. their death eclipsing the sun where they stand.

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J O R DA N DAV I D S O N Novel | Colorado Academy, Denver, CO

Skin, Bone, Hands, and Teeth Excerpt One:

Maine flares around us in an impressionist painting of fall forests, the reds, yellows, and oranges of aspen trees muted by the rain lashing our car window. Helené takes the weather in stride; I lean my head against the glass, trying to let the subtle knocking lure me to a semblance of sleep. It doesn’t work. A particularly fierce curve smashes the side of my forehead with enough force to begin the creation of what will be a particularly nasty colored bruise. Helené laughs. In both hands, she shuffles a deck of cards. “Love, I told you ignoring the universe’s order to rejoin the world of the living only leads to your pain and suffering. Do you want ice for your forehead before we start our tournament?” I agree to the ice and accept my hand. Even as the dealer, she goes first—she always does—laying down a run before I can sort through my cards. In the dour lighting in the back of her parents’ limousine, Helené still looks beautiful. If time had dragged us back to an era before science, I would have thought that Helené was a goddess in disguise; even though I know with a certainty that here magic isn’t real, I wonder what combination of circumstance and luck made Helené the way she is: topaz and obsidian, vibrant and blazing. I’d spent the summer traveling between Helené’s estates and my family in Costa Rica. When I tired of my brothers’ ceaseless tirades against common sense, I reunited with Helené in Paris, and we wandered together for a while, taking in the shores of Italy and Greece, drinking on river cruises in Budapest, relaxing over tapas and paella in Helené’s house in Tossa Del Mar after retreating back to Spain. The summer months have all been spent now; the frosts and withering of fall have dragged us back to school where we will join with the rest of our group—the rest of our family. Most of them chose to spend their summers with their own parents or at school. “Your turn, Valentina.” When Helené plays cards, she does it with second nature ease, often managing to beat me while badgering me with conversation. The two strategies most likely go hand in hand. She smiles through orange lipstick and blinding white teeth. “Though luck isn’t in your favor.” “Most likely.” My hand doesn’t allow me to do much more than a simple swap: drawing a card and discarding another a moment later. “Hmm,” Helené muses after setting down another hand of three. She’s only fingering two cards now—the next move has the possibility to rake me over the coals. The car takes another turn, sending Helené scrambling for the iced tea that begins to roll off the small table set up between our seats. She rolls down the window shade to give us a better look at the outside. A flurry of maple leaves sweeps by us down the banks of a shallow lake with its surface riddled with rings of rain. In front of us winds the long dirt road that every Redlake student takes to and from the campus, although no other cars line it now, meaning Helené and I are either early, late, or... students didn’t want to re-enroll. My hands hurt from clutching the cards too hard. “And the end of last year? What did you think of it?” Helené asks. “About the same as the end of every other year. Another conglomeration of useless testing, false smiles, and ongoing goodbyes.” “And where do you think people will have spent their summers?” “Summer houses. Other countries—traveling.” I know where Helené is leading the conversation, and I do my best to divert it—say anything else—but still answer her. 102

“Or graveyards.” Helené throws the last words out with an air of carelessness that a lengthy sip of her tea betrays. With a noncommittal sweep of my hand, I set down the only card I can play, a queen of hearts. For Helene’s deck, her grandmother painted portraits on each individual card. The Queen stares up at us with dark eyes ringed in red makeup. Like mascara burned into her skin. Helené draws and sets down her last card, leaving me to tally up my points, which end up in negative figures. While I record the year’s first points in the notebook Helené and I share to track our rummy scores, Helené finishes off her first iced tea and reaches into the fridge below her seat for another, to which she adds a spoonful of the honey she bought from a farm we visited in Kiev. Through the honey covered stir stick in her mouth she drawls, “Your score has to be bad luck. On a cosmic scale.” “Only to the superstitious.” The garnets woven into her braids tinkle merrily with Helené’s brief chortle. “I should count how many times you and William get into this argument. You’ve already done your job of establishing yourself as the skeptic and forcing me to be the peacemaker.” I allow myself a smile, although I know it fails to crinkle the lines around my eyes or make my face more welcoming. The car has just begun the final series of turns twisting around the bases of various lakes, the last stretch of road until we reach Redlake. Helené has already popped the tab on a can of ginger ale, pressing a sleeve of saltines with it into my clammy hand, before she speaks again. “Of course, if someone was even more superstitious than me, they’d have fled for the hills. But not those hills.” She refers to the set of low hills that are home to both Redlake and a few summer houses for Redlake’s board of trustees and their children. Helené tries to press me into commenting with pointed blinks of her gold liner covered lids. When I don’t she carries on, “Not when they found Eve’s corpse in her room in one of the vacation chalets.” Finally, we arrive at the topic that’s clearly been dancing on Helené’s tongue. The brutal murder of Eve Winters, a classmate of ours. Rumors say she was burned from the inside out. In her own room. With the door locked. I don’t know how much of it is true. I don’t think I want to know. “You look awful.” Helené rests her elbows on the folding table. I stare at her silhouette across from me, the glint in her eyes screaming a dare to whoever killed that poor girl: Come get me. You’ll see what you find. “I don’t like thinking about death.” The seatbelt chafes a line along my throat. Did the killer hold Eve by her throat? Did they break the skin? Was she tied up in ropes? Home remedies only wash away the superficial rolls of nausea. “Really? A writing major who doesn’t like thinking about death? Shocking.” Helené’s lips twitch for a moment, then her face stills. But her fingers drum against anything they can reach: the window, the barrier between us and the driver, the cards. The intensity in her eyes focuses for a moment as the car whips past a fork in the road where one dirt prong splits into another. A weather worn sign instructs us that if we want unparalleled luxury and privacy, all we have to do is call the number listed below, where we’ll be given a cheerful real estate agent trying to set us up with the most eligible properties stranded in Maine’s wilderness.

Only the yellow caution tape and police lines say otherwise. Helené rolls down the window before the road can jerk us away. Water hits my face, making me thank God that I chose waterproof foundation. Helené raps on the divider with her knuckle. “Stop the car.” The driver complies; we grind to a slow halt. Helené flings open the door. I hand her an umbrella from my backpack. She’s sure to open it outside the car. On the first step out, my boot heels sink up to an inch in mud and wet coats all of me, from the wool of my coat to the spaces in between the strands of my hair. Helené doesn’t wait for me to start walking to the scene. I’m happy to let her lead and follow just off her shoulder like we would at school; she’s better at having conversations where she gets what she wants than I am. I write; she talks. We pick our way through puddles and potholes towards the two police officers—a thin black man holding a camera and a white woman whose stomach pushes at the buttons of her uniform. She speaks to him in a low voice that neither Helené nor I can hear. A third officer peels out of the forest the moment we come within nine feet of the line. His white face contorts around the fringes of his mustache. “Get back in the car,” he says. Helené cocks her head without a care in the world. But the new lines down her neck tell me that her shoulders are tightening, and with them, the grip of her right hand on the phone inside her pocket, which I saw her set to record before we stepped out. “Is this the start of the Winters crime scene?” “What do you know about it?” he asks us. “Not much.” Wind whips a braid or two across Helené’s mouth. With an elegant grace that perpetually evades me, she swipes them behind her ear. The clouds above us darken in synchrony to a clap of thunder. “Just that our school is going to question most of the kids.” “Your school?” A jerk of Helené’s head behind us illustrates her point. “Redlake. Where hopefully no one else will be murdered.” The thin man sets down the camera and crosses the crime scene line to whisper in the mustached officer’s ear. In the span of a second, the thin officer’s face twitches. Then nothing. No indication that Helené’s proclamation changed him. Except that he comes closer to us. Close enough for me to make out the nearly illegible scrawl on the document peeking from his pocket. Eve Winters Homicide Police Report. Below the headline are several pictures; even though most are hidden from view by the blue material of his pocket, I make out a single, pale arm. “Redlake,” both male officers repeat. “Redlake.” Helené offers once again, this time accompanied by her hand. I watch her gaze skim theirs. I wonder what she sees that I miss. Because Helené always sees more than she likes to admit—an attribute if not solely responsible for the creation of our group then one whose role has parted the sea for us to join Helené and her divine warfront, which now I see turning towards Eve’s murder. Neither officer takes the offered handshake, but behind the men, the female officer surveys us with more intensity. Seemingly unfazed, Helené puts her hand down crisply. “So tell me, officers, are we safe at school? Or did one of our classmates decide it was time to do in poor Miss Eve—” “Do you think one of your—ah—classmates would have had a motive to want Eve dead?” The female officer interrupts. “I have no idea. That’s your job, not mine.” Leaving the officers still processing her words, Helené sweeps back through the limousine doors, her angled shoulders insisting that I do the same. She holds the door open for me; I climb in, Helené waiting a moment to close her umbrella. The car starts again, and we’re back to our card game as if no police, yellow tape, or body ever existed. After wiping down my stilettos with a handkerchief from my purse, I ask Helené, “What do you know?” Helené doesn’t take her eyes off the window when she answers. “I’ll tell you later. I don’t want to repeat this particular theory more than once, and as much as I trust you, Valentina-Love, the rest of the group needs to hear this too.” The rest of the ride we spend in silence, Helené engaged in solitaire and me listening to the rain’s drumbeat on the roof.

For a high school whose student has just been murdered, the amount of security at Redlake seems not to have increased much. As usual, a guard pokes his head out of the station a few miles from the campus proper to ask for the proper ID. Helené’s driver rolls down his window to present it. Seeing that everything is in its proper order, the guard waves us through. Though vehicles were noticeably missing from our drive here, the same number of glistening sports cars, limousines, and sedans idle with their engines puffing little clouds of smoke into the afternoon rain along the drive. Maybe more. The entry lanes to Redlake are large enough to be a campus in their own right, but instead, the administration decided a better use of its property would be to plant acres of gardens for student relaxation. To the north of the road, mazes woven of red roses and dark thorns guard the north houses and admission buildings. These are the newest properties on campus, built fifty years ago and renovated just two years before I arrived for freshman year. There, the land puckers and drops when one goes far enough, giving way to a swollen river basin that eventually, when given enough time and miles, filters its freezing waters up through Quebec and to the Atlantic Ocean. In the fall, students separate small eddies from the river with rocks to make their own skating ponds. Helené, the rest of our group, and I built a few freshman year and spent the majority of our winter in and out of the infirmary with skate cuts, bruises, and frostbitten fingers. I catch a stray rainbow arching over the valley as the road steers our car towards the south side. Here, sculpted hedges give way to field hockey, soccer, and lacrosse fields only used in the spring and summer, when the groundskeepers can unthaw them enough for us to play intramural games. From there, the school’s oak trees bleed into unruly forests of pine and witch hazel where the upperclassmen and postgrads drink and smoke and ultimately get caught by the dorm monitors. The farther south one goes, the more wilderness one encounters until one finds the wrought iron fence severing Redlake from the rest of Maine. Helené’s driver follows the road east, into the campus proper. Kids filter between Gothic and Tudor buildings, laughing, shoving, and throwing their luggage onto porters’ carts so they aren’t forced to haul their lives up to their rooms themselves. This year, huddles of parents converse in tight knots, each clutching a folded red pamphlet emblazoned with Redlake’s crest to their chest, undoubtedly the new safety restrictions for the coming year. The huddles collect towards the middle school, where every child has a parent. At the curb where Helené and I stop, the high schoolers and postgrads, with a few exceptions, mill around without the suffocation of adults. Most chartered their drivers to take them this year, leaving concerned parents in the dust. Helené and I disembark. I call a porter to take our luggage, but unload the first few cases myself—to give me something to do during Helené’s greetings and dismissals of the normal underclassmen drawn to her glow, and the upperclassmen whose jealousy contorts into enchantment. “Helené!” The floral scent of Helené’s mother’s Chanel No. 5 blankets the fall air. I’ve always liked Helené’s family. Helené and her mother kiss goodbye and exchange farewells in Creole. They don’t look much alike—one can see more of Helené’s heart-shaped face in her father, who stands next to his wife. But Helené and her mother wear their hair in the same way, in thin box braids that they twist into knots on the top of their heads for special occasions. Mrs. Billeaud motions in my direction. Helené holds her fingers like that too. “Miss Savos! Did you and my daughter have a good ride?” She’d taken another car so that Helené and I could ride together. I set down my suitcase on a passing porter’s cart. “Yes, ma’am.” Her hands press into my shoulder blades. The kisses we trade prickle my cheek. “You take good care of my girl this year.” “I will.” The smile I give is as pretty as it can be. She fans her face under the rim of her umbrella. “Sometimes I don’t know why all these parents let their children go so far away.” “The best arts education in the United States!” Helené waltzes between us. “Mama Dearest, Valentina and I have to go to our dorm room now.” “Shouldn’t Valentina call her parents before the two of you go off ?” Mrs. Billeaud smiles expectantly. 103

I realize I have forgotten to do so. I duck underneath a balcony and phone them. By the time I finish, Helené’s mother, father, and driver have departed and the rest of our luggage has disappeared up to our rooms. Porters point us towards the Southraven, the dean’s house. There, we approach the wooden table covered in bins of envelopes. “Welcome back to Redlake, girls.” The woman behind the table, who I don’t recognize, holds out a clipboard. “Sign into your rooms please.” “I haven’t seen you here before,” Helené says. “Is this because of Eve’s murder?” The woman’s lips purse so tightly they disappear into her face. “I’m not allowed to say.” “Are you new security?” The clipboard is set down on the table. Helené juggles the pen from hand to hand, but won’t sign. “Redlake has been updating their policies.” “Ah.” Helené passes the clipboard back to me, although I pass it back to the woman. She looks down at the space where my signature belongs. “Miss Savos, you need to sign to access your room key.” For a moment, the air around us tightens. Without touching me, Helené inserts herself between the woman and I. “Valentina has a special housing plan.” She scans the woman’s badge. “Mrs. Luminesk. She has all the proper papers, which you would have known if you weren’t new.” So that Mrs. Luminesk can see the transfer of documents, Helené holds out her hand to me. I rummage through the bowels of my purse for the Manila folder. Once the woman reads it, she gives us both our keys—mine to a separate room. The sharp motions of her hands while the transfer takes place show how she deigns to do so. By some miracle of Helené’s making, the two of us have been assigned to the same rooms as last year, in Lorkheron House, an eighteenth century gothic manor nestled between the back of the science building and the forest. The oak doors swing open with creaks that herald their years; I like that in this house the floors unleash a symphony of groans at every step and the stairs sing a fanfare. The carpets placed here at the dean’s request do little to muffle the cacophony—Lorkheron house tells us again and again of its age. I could imagine some great story unfolding here. As we walk, jasmine perfumes tickle our throats. Every year, the houses receive a new crop of freshman; this year’s batch blinks wildly at the carved figures in the ceiling, and the red walls, which could be painted in their blood. We squeeze past them, around the granite fireplace, and up the wooden staircase that yawns in two. Helené and I take the rightmost stair. We split ways at the student lounge. Neither Helené nor I have roommates to discuss study schedules or decorations with, so we take the time for ourselves, listening to what, for us, suits calm better than silence: the creaks and groan of Lorkheron wood, the scratching of cascades of pine needles being thrown against our windows, and students calling to each other across quads. My suitcases have been brought up by the porters. Before unpacking them, I check the lock; grease stains my fingers and the key is tucked behind my dresser and its replacement weighs my neck down with its chain. After weaving this year into my room, I do a bit of writing. I write about Helené, I write about rain on car windows, I write about Eve’s corpse wrapped in yellow caution tape.

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Two: At five PM, Helene comes to my room. She knocks; I fix my makeup and leave. Together, we avoid clusters of new students on the way to the student center for a few rounds of cards with the rest of the group in a lounge before dinner at eight. As we go, the campus falls unusually quiet. No boys play frisbee or spikeball in the quads. There are no shouts from the stables, or cries echoing from homesick kids in the dorms. Locks on every window glitter. They’ve given us new keys to the student center. Helené points out that there were never locks on the public buildings before. They must be because of Eve, but she lets me come to that conclusion on my own. Our phones grow warm in our pockets with strings of incoming texts set off by Helené: Already there! Of course! Be there shortly. Urgh, as soon as I can dorm monitor being a real— Keep the chat pg thirteen, Lisa! That’s not even how you spell PG-13. The rain finished an hour or so ago, but muddy footprints track lines to different lounges through the halls. With the gothic interior gutted to make room for computers, vending machines, and illusion stairs, one could almost imagine this place outside Redlake, in some boarding school near the city. When one hears the conversation in passing that illusion dies away. Did you hear about Eve? No, I was on my family’s yacht in the Caribbean. Shitty cell service. It’s a shame. We won’t be able to sneak out anymore, will we? Who cares? Mom’ll talk to them. Then we’ll be able to go wherever we want. “Helené! Valentina!” A dark-haired head pokes around the corner of an upstairs lounge. “Here! It’s good to see you two!” Emi, Helené, and I blow air kisses. William, who lurks in the corner by a vending machine, stretches out his acres of leg to greet us. He grew a fair amount over the summer; when we said goodbye in the spring, he was still a head shorter than me; now, his chin hovers several inches above my eyes. Emi’s phone chirps. She checks it. “Lisa’s on her way. She’s just running into some trouble with our dorm monitor and the new keys. Did you meet Mrs. Luminesk?” “Of course we did.” Helené picks a seat on one of the couches in the center of the room. She crosses one heel over the other, resting her bottom leg on an ottoman. All of us take our cues from her and find our own places: as always, we keep Helené in the center where all of us can see her. After a while, our verbal abuse of Mrs. Luminesk dries out and the conversations split; William and Helené exchange summer stories, Emi and I chat about various things in Spanish since Emi didn’t get the chance to go home this summer. At about five-thirty, Tennyson and Lisa join us. Lisa sits down next to Emi, and Tennyson takes his customary place back to William. He glares at the vending machine. “What the hell happened to the snacks?” William bolts up to look. “Those bastards.” With a huff, Lisa just shakes her head, sending cascades of blonde hair falling down her shoulders from the bun at the base of her neck. Emi tucks the strands back up without Lisa noticing. “They changed it—” “In July,” Lisa finishes. “Some bull about ‘healthier students’”. “If admin really wanted healthier students,” Tennyson mumbles, “they’d think more about the stress levels their massive amounts of homework cause. Now, how am I supposed to stress eat my way through finals?” “You don’t stress eat your way through anything,” Emi glowers, poking his stomach. “You weigh less than Valentina, and Valentina looks like she’d break if you patted her on the back too hard.” “Tell us more about the vending machine’s self-destruction,” Helené says. Lisa complies. She and Emi detail the pamphlets slid under doors over the summer and how the administration made the change in order to fend off the copious amounts of letters from parents following healthy food trends. Apparently, the administration sent maintenance crews to empty the machines and dispose of the undesirable junk food, a feat which Lisa couldn’t stomach. Through a combination of sit-in protests, forcibly blocking the doors, and emailing back and forth with Helené,

Lisa and Emi managed to donate the rest of the food to a teen homeless shelter in New York. The knots holding up my shoulders start to unwind. Helené holds court; when the story has finished unraveling, she nods her head at Tennyson to close the lounge door. He does so. We fall silent. Every eye turns to Helené. She cuts a striking figure against the couches, defiant, sculpted chin jutting out, resting on her elegantly twisted hands. “So you all heard about Eve.” We rustle to be near her, nodding our assents. Emi begins to cry, leaving Lisa to wrap her arms around her girlfriend and kiss the top of her head. On the other side of them, Tennyson and William exchange worried looks. The combination of Emi’s tears and the drumbeat of Tennyson’s foot stamping thunders our own private rainstorm. Slowly, Helené slides her phone out of the pocket of her jacket and hits play. Real rain fills the room—the sound of Helené’s conversation with the police officer all but drowned out in the scattered crashes and pounding—beneath it all whistles the wind; I hear what might be Helené’s breathing... what might be mine... harmonizing with the low idling of our car. Then the resonance shifts. A new sound cracks through the monotony. The sharp tenor of voices I missed. Helené must have changed the recording settings under the guise of fiddling with the knobs of my umbrella. Unmistakably, the female officer says: They’re not the voices on the phone call. To which the other officers respond: Maybe they know whoever made it. Since everyone involved goes to Redlake. The recording shuts off. Helené leaves her phone on the table. Silence holds. The red walls take turns marching in on our circle. Helené’s voice comes out low, so low that even if some phantom murderer presses their ears against the door, they’ll only hear Tennyson’s feet scuffing. “The police have made no arrests for Eve’s murder.” Helené lifting her phone captivates us. Every flashing number as she inputs her passcode milks adrenaline into my veins. 223487. “Parents got the news before we did, of course. When my mom told me about the death, I started making as many condolence calls as I could. Eve’s parents wouldn’t take any means of communication, I could only assume they were busy with police reports and funeral arrangements. I did get through to Gwenyth.” Gwenyth was Eve’s—although I don’t know how she feels about the dead—best friend. I haven’t seen her today. Where is she? Will she be joining us? Helené has a way with people. But Helené catches my inadvertent glance towards the door. “No. She’s not coming back this year.” “Where’s she going then?” Tennyson asks. In response, Helené passes him her phone. He reads; his eyebrows furrow. Tennyson hands it to William, who skims whatever’s on the screen before passing it to Lisa, who holds it out to Emi, so they can both read, and from them, it ends up in my left hand. Lisa has the kind of white skin that’s like spoiled milk; susceptible to color changes and riddled with acne along her hairline that she must be on some new regimen for, because it’s almost disappeared over the summer. Her skin flares red if she gets a wrong answer, sours and peels with exposure to sunlight, and, when disturbed, drains until mottled with blue and green. Emi trails one hand down Lisa’s thyme colored cheek. Wordlessly, they hold each other. I scroll to the top of what appears to be a transcript. I read down again. I hand the phone back to Helené. Attempt to. My fingers tremble so hard the phone falls to the floor, face down. Helené reaches down to grab it. “Moment of truth,” William cracks. No one returns his half-hearted smile. A thin, hairline crack mars the screen from top to bottom. “I’m sorry.” Helené waves away my apology. “I wanted a new phone anyway. I’ll take care of it when we’re finally cleared to go back into town. Did everyone read?” In synchrony, we nod.

“That... was the call that I made to Gwenyth. From what I could glean from the hysteria—wild accusations about anyone and everyone at Redlake—she was supposed to visit Eve the day of her murder.” Helené pauses. Lisa fills in. “But didn’t. Because she thought Eve was going crazy.” “Gwenyth thought nobody would possibly want to make such bizarre death threats to a sweet little rich girl like Eve. But then again, we know what happened, don’t we?” Helené twists her hair around her shoulders, the garnet color of her hair throwing red light on Tennyson’s face. “And the next thing we know, Gwenyth’s been put in a treatment center.” “For what?” Lisa’s eyes narrow. The air around Helené seems to warp, and Helené, in all of her righteous justice, steals the next breath from my throat. “Apparently, she tried to throw herself off a building, but her brother grabbed her in time. Either way, she’s not allowed to have visitors, or talk to the police without parental consent, which hasn’t been given.” With that, bells from the chapel begin to ring, sending us all scurrying downstairs for dinner. We take our spot in the middle, surrounded by two long, wooden tables, sounds, and lights from old chandeliers. The kitchen overflows with sweet smelling steam. Table by table the teachers dismiss us to circle the buffet style food lines welling with hushed conversation. Thunderstorms, tears, condensation—wet has settled in my hair today, trailing its way down my spine. Back sitting on our benches, the conversation ebbs and flows between various things that all touch, in some way, on Eve. My mind spins images of her body, all extrapolating from the photo of her arm… Tennyson and William lose interest in Emi and Lisa’s discussion of the garden they planted on their dorm window ledge—was Eve buried with flowers and trees?—starting to thumb wrestle between their plates, Tennyson’s mahogany hand intertwining with William’s rose colored fingers. Eve, breaking her nails against the palm of whoever held her. Helené stops pushing her food around her plate to look at me. Everything will turn out alright. Her eyes say it. I trust her. I have to. Bits of rice stick in the back of my throat, and I need more than one glass of water to dislodge them. Dinner morphs into dessert. Melting ice cream coats fingers—the traditional Redlake first day desert, although with a quick survey of the room, no one eats. Students orbit Eve’s and Gwenyth’s table, empty now, but no one sits. At the head of the room, the headmaster steps down from her staff balcony and begins to speak with us.... her words pass through my head without leaving a mark... I heard more from Helené… Fear carves the pupils of students around me to slits. The new freshmen whisper and rustle and ask themselves what kind of school they chose, in contrast to the upperclassmen like us, who sit stock still. Listening. Or too sick to make a sound. “We expect all Redlake students to be cooperative with any investigation. The police may be conducting interviews within the school. Your parents will be asked to sit in on those meetings to protect student safety and privacy,” the headmistress says. The room seethes. Then we are asked for a moment of silence in Eve’s memory. Redlake bows its head. The headmistress ends her remarks with a warning: “Remember, Redlake can guarantee your safety on campus, but once you leave the gates, there aren’t any security guards or cameras watching out for you. Stay here, stay safe.” She steps down from her podium. We splinter into chatter. Different teachers take the stand, testifying as to their condolences, their new anti-cheating policies, their hopes for this year. The room never goes back to quiet. Hidden in the burble of words Helené leans towards us. “If someone here killed Eve, we have a responsibility to find them.” We all nod, pledging ourselves to her—of course we do. We follow Helené like the sun. We follow her like the moon. She is the river that wears away the flaws and falsities of our canyons and the canyon that guides our waters down to the ocean, the place we finally belong. Helené is all we have.

105

K AT H E R I N E D AV I S

Creative Nonfiction | South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities, Greenville, SC

My Grandmother Disappeared: A Photograph 1. In the photo you see my dad, his brother Jud, his sister Heidi, and his other sister Missy. My grandparents sit behind them. The picture is from a family photoshoot. The backdrop is a blend of light browns and greys. 2. My grandmother’s name is Carmen. She sits to the right of my grandfather, and the camera rests comfortably on her. 3. Carmen is probably twenty in this photo. Her nose crinkles like a teenager, and my father can’t be any older than three. 4. When my father was born, Carmen was 17 years old. 5. When my father was born, Carmen was a year older than I am now. 6. My grandmother Carmen chauffeured infants with a broken taillight. 7. My grandmother Carmen drove down highways without a license. 8. My grandmother Carmen has a long list of interests and hobbies. She likes chainsaws, motorcycles, family calendars, balloon animals, sock puppets, and trips to Indonesia. 9. My grandmother Carmen is so stupidly hardcore, and I love her very much. 10. My grandmother Carmen is not my actual grandmother. 11. My grandmother Carmen is my father’s stepmom. 12. When my dad was born, his real mother, Sheila, stayed in the hospital for one day then vanished completely. 13. My father has seven half-siblings. Maybe more. 14. Sheila is his friend on Facebook. 15. Facebook was how my dad found most of his siblings. 16. Through Facebook, Sheila can see pictures of me. 17. Strange that Sheila knows what kind of cake I ate for my 16th birthday. 18. Strange that I keep talking about Sheila when she isn’t even in this photo. 19. Every few months, Carmen writes me a letter about chainsaws, motorcycles, balloon animals, and trips to Indonesia. I send her a letter back, and she always texts me when she gets it in the mail. 20. Recently, my dad posted this photo to celebrate Carmen’s 53rd birthday. 21. In the photo, I see my grandmother smiling at the camera. 22. I see my grandmother in a cornflower dress. 23. I see a flat, boundless wall of beige that suggests no place and no time. 24. Shelia has probably seen this photo by now. 25. What does she think? What does she see?

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107

MARION DEAL

Creative Nonfiction | Downers Grove North High School, Downers Grove, IL

The Great Conversation Text exchange with a new friend in a group of artists. I’ve landed with them after my university closed housing on account of COVID. 19 April 2020, 17:30 Them: “I’m curious about you. There are many questions I want to ask.” Me: “I could maybe make you a playlist? I do that, frequently I have (literally) hundreds of playlists” Them: “Lovely” 22 April 2020, 19:20 Them: “Thank you for the playlist ‘Charles de Gaulle’ is going on my new songs playlist for april” Me: “I’m glad that you connected with Charles de Gaulle. it’s a playlist that is... me, because most of the songs are tied to something vital. If you ever want to know the story behind any of the songs, I’d be happy to share.” Them: “ yes :) (that yes was me wanting to know about all of them, by the way)” Me: “i’ll text you these stories as the moment dictates. Some might be longer. Some might be shorter. they might be fucked up grammar wise. but that’s kinda the point. I was talking with someone about how difficult it’s been to write... anything lately. But she told me that me simply... talking to her was a means of expression. a means of poetry. I should just record myself, sometimes, she said. and keep it for when the moment’s right. this project seems to be along those lines of expression. 22 April 2020, 23:47 Me, later: “a lot of the stories are associated with the Great Conversation, how we talk to the people who’ve come before us by dialoguing with what they’ve left behind in creating. how we layer stories on top of each other, and build on the legacy of the thinkers + creators we love by both paying homage to their work and pushing it to see where it breaks. always being haunted, and always challenging the ghosts.”

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Charles de Gaulle (Letts): I was at an anime convention and was staying with my rapist and his fiancée (who were what a confused, gaslit 13-year-old me thought were my best friends). And they just... left me on the con floor. I ended up wandering around until i found some other friends, castmates from the Renaissance Faire i was acting in at the time. I had spent the last year being told by the rapist and fiancée in question that these people were fucked up, manipulative, that they cared nothing about me... And instead, my castmates welcomed me with open arms. They saw that something was wrong. Ant asked me if I wanted to stay in the hotel room with him and Evan & Eli. I joined them in a quiet walk across the streets from the con to their hotel in darkness, lit by streetlights as a fine, misting rain was beginning to fall. I was listening to them joking & gamboling with one ear; the other had an earbud playing “Charles de Gaulle.” Later that night, my rapist tried to get into the hotel room. I found out later that he got into a screaming match in the lobby: another friend and castmate, Michael, wouldn’t let him in. The next day, I left a haiku on the pillow of my bed for the cleaning staff at the hotel. I went and fetched my things from the fiancée’s apartment. That was the last time he touched me. Song for Budhanton (Maarten Seghers): i. This is a song from an avant-garde Belgian show I saw with a dear friend of mine: an italian director and actor. i met her by chance at a Théâtre du Soleil show last spring in Paris. we hit it off immediately -- she and i spiraled into conversations about Art and Feeling and how the invitation to Create mattered, viscerally and practically. We talked until she realized she was almost late for another play she had to review, one that she had an extra ticket for... naturally, we careened through the Métro and flopped into our seats minutes before it began. Whenever she came back to Paris to write coverage of more shows, she’d stay with me and we’d race around the city with projects rattling between us and theatre unspooling before us. This song is from one of those shows, a piece of theatre embroidered golden with possibility and discourse. It weaves together threads of neuroscience and history, archaeology and identity, dance and oral storytelling: it illuminated my spirit in the way that “Lawrence of Arabia” did the first time I saw it, that Strange Days did the first time I heard it. ii. Eight months later, in late November, I was in my first semester at Uni. This was the last month or so of the session, when I was getting sicker exponentially as my work increased exponentially. I was coming back from a translation conference, and in a bad way. I’d collapsed twice at the conference, and had spent the entire bus ride shivering under the heater. The evening seemed later than it was thanks to the early setting of the sun and foggy gusting of New York snow winds. The bus stop was on the other side of a massive river relative to my dorm, and I had to cross a spindly spider-arm bridge to get to the building. I was barely walking at that point, and had to fucking haul myself out of the bus, my legs threatening to give way with every step. I’d jammed my headphones into my ears, and was blaring Song For Budhanton to give my feet a rhythm to step to. I was so alone -- the grad students who I’d been hoping to spend some time with at the conference had their own friendships they’d been tending for years, long before some freshman undergrad stepped

onto the scene, and had barely given me the time of day; I hadn’t made any good friends at Uni; the world that I loved seemed unavailable and far away. And now I was collapsing, again, weak imbecile that I was, and there was no one to help me walk across a bridge back to my goddamn dorm. I stopped at the top of the bridge, which curved up and over the river. And I haltingly dragged myself up onto the railing with every intent of pitching myself off of it -- the fall wasn’t that bad, but I was weak enough and the water was cold enough and there wasn’t anyone else out to see me. I teetered there. The only reason I didn’t is because Camus and Jim Morrison came to me, Albert in a ratty suit that smelled like cigarette smoke and Jim in the tight leather pants and loose white blouse that were his trademark. They gripped me by the shoulders: Camus on my left, Jim on my right. I can still feel it, leaning on them, seeing them and not seeing in the gauze of the dusk; when I couldn’t see them the air was hard-fuzz (like peach down with a skull underneath) and warm under my arms, supporting me. They dragged me through the November snow and to my dorm, which I still shared with two others at that point. One of them was in, fluorescent on her bed with the lights turned off and The Office playing across her face. I didn’t have the strength to climb up to my bunk, and I knew she didn’t want the lights on. So I lay on the tile and stared up at the ceiling for a good long time, imagining great herds of ungulates striding across the plaster in the broken night. Sicilian Crest (The Mountain Goats): this is a song about the development of fascist movements and the kind of mindset that welcomes them. The piece is fairly versatile in how I use it/when I listen to it, simply because the feeling that it engenders is all-around useful: the kind of disconnect from affect and effect that allows for a contemptuous control of surroundings. I remember being in Kathmandu, where a dear friend of mine persuaded me to go with a group of folks out to a beyond-city house they’d all rented for the weekend. I was fairly certain that this one Yale guy and I were going to hook up -- I’d walked into the bedroom I’d claimed in the house and found him there, asking (rather unsubtly even for me, who’s fucking oblivious to social cues of any kind) if we could share the room. That night we just ended up lying next to each other at 3 am, talking about the Beach Boys and the Brothers Karamazov. But every interaction we had was rife with potential. So I was pretty satisfied with the feeling of power that I had -- he wasn’t the only person who wanted to get into my pants in this group of people, and I liked knowing that I had influence over them, even though I didn’t necessarily know how to use it. I liked him, but I liked knowing that I held the deed to an attraction of his even more. And that breed of disjointed satisfaction in my control of a situation and of a person was channeled and reflected in the mentality of a country primed to accept fascist control -- something that I could exult in, the thrill of dissociated mastery over potential. Heroin (The Velvet Underground): my first semester of college, I got sick. really sick. couldn’t-walk-acrosscampus-to-my-dorm-from-health-services sick. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I was stuck in a relationship that was becoming a manipulative cesspit of emotions with a girlfriend who couldn’t handle my success. and yet I was excelling: 4.0 at a top-tier research university, research grant, scholarships, my own cognitive neuroscientific research, an almost certain trip back to Paris to translate memoirs, mentors teaching me how to design psycholinguistic studies and read early modern manuscript hands, two poetry chapbooks getting published. Every part of me was falling apart save my mind: I stumbled into my linguistics midterm with a 104 degree fever and got an A+. I would go to my classes and hold lightning in a bottle during discourse, then collapse on the floor of my dorm bathroom and wait for my body to realize that i hadn’t eaten enough to vomit. I discovered this song when about to head into that midterm, and I felt... not better, but energized with the kind of manic charge when “it shoots up the dropper’s neck/and I’m closing in on death” and I looked up and saw Arthur Rimbaud sitting across from me and I said “Are you fucking happy yet?”

Girl Anachronism (The Dresden Dolls): this was the song for my time in public high school. The extremity of feeling, the desire to Do, to be Great. (being a teenager, in short, but also being me.) it bored at me every second i was up. drilling through those halls seemed to interact with substrate/system “me” in such a way that was Corrosive. I had any number of ways for referring to how it ate away at me, most of them immature and elitist -- lack of purpose, surrounded by “idiots,” fear of wasting time -- but in the end it came to a simple, profound knowledge that I could not logically explain: if I stayed in this place too long, I would die. So I skipped a grade. and then I skipped another. I worked, and I wrote, and I spent hours in my room screaming along to The Wall and to Girl Anachronism. I thought desperately, created desperately, made connections all at once and stitched and scribbled my own clothing. And because the teachers treated me different than anyone else in the fucking bottle episode of Downers Grove North High School, I was deified: made into a Thing to be Worshipped. I was weird, and out of control, and “gifted,” and girdled by the ghosts that were my companions -- T.E. Lawrence and Jim Morrison and Arthur Rimbaud. Most days it felt like I was just hurtling towards the 27 Club, and keeping up the pretense of radical success because if I didn’t, I would limit my choices even more than the illusion already in place. Sometimes it feels like nothing much has changed. Going Invisible 2 (The Mountain Goats): i was at the musée d’orsay, for the first time. id been in paris for about two months then, long enough to know that i was at home. long enough to know that the city was going to care for me. i was halfway through one of my most massive, favorite projects: a world of the dead id designed to ask questions about narrative passage, posterity, greatness, purpose when all needs are provided for except the drive towards story. i was designing rooms and statues and weapons, writing poems and journal entries and transcripts of security footage. and i was wandering around this great belly-cavern of light and glass, the museum. i sat down to lunch at a ridiculously expensive restaurant i afforded cause id planned by not eating the two days before. it was all crystal and gold foil: i observed and ate in a cacophony of senses. i drifted into the room where Gauguin and Van Gogh’s works were displayed side by side, and the two of them sat beside me on a bench in the center as i wrote invocations and prophecies and laments in the swirl of onlookers and the riot of color. i wandered around the museum for hours, exhausted and exhilarated by the weight of the ghosts trammeling me and the colors i felt the compulsion to synthesize and the stories ricocheting through the paintings and the sculptures and the glass that i could Continue, Partake In, Do Justice To. I put my headphones in and wandered. Just as “Going Invisible 2” came on, i caught a glimpse of myself in a wall of mirrors at the end of the hallway: caught up in a dozen projects, twirling a fine dance through them all; wearing a scarlet coat embroidered, patched, burned with talismans from everyone id adventured with in the past year; my face thinner, older than it had been when i left the states. i understood: this is me. and i am whole.

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A A L I YA H D E M P S E Y Photography | Hume-Fogg Academic Magnet High School, Nashville, TN

Portrait of Brother Color positive film 2020 110

Portrait of Brother Color negative film 2020 111

STEVE DOU Photography | Lynbrook High School, San Jose, CA

Girl Talk Mixed media 2020 112

Breaking News Mixed media 2020 113

KENDAL DUFF Photography | Deerfield Academy, Deerfield, MA

Untitled Digital photography 2020 114

Requiem for a Dream Digital photography 2020 115

ALE XANDER E MERY Design Arts | Saint Marks School of Texas, Dallas, TX

Postwar Japan Influenced Backgammon Board Walnut, padauk, brushed aluminum, birch plywood 2020 116

Interwar Japanese Influenced Watch Box White cedar, red cedar, padauk, live-edge oak, pine dowels 2018 117

THERESE ENRIQUEZ Photography | Harvard-Westlake School, Studio City, CA

Hide and Seek Digital photography, pen and paper 2019 118

The Wonder Pets Nikon camera, Photoshop, pen and paper 2019 119

QUINN ERICKSON Visual Arts | Westlake High School, Austin, TX

Heritage in Cyan: Physical Practice Cyanotype images, found object 2019 120

The Pilgrimage Oil paint, silver foil 2020 121

TAY L O R F A N G Poetry | Logan High School, Logan, UT

Notes on Hunger All afternoon my body dreams of doors. Curvature of whale’s ribs, the hollowness inside—aspartame white, skin in flaps. They say the goddess Nüwa birthed man from the belly of a fish. Or maybe it was a tortoise: beak-mouth, dark blue dredging up old coins. My lips hooked to the waterline. When I was seven, I saw my grandmother for the last time. Still I imagine her hands instead of Nüwa’s. Still I imagine my own hands inside a matchbox, fingers blunted. Stiff paper, paraffin wax. In my dreams, it is always the year of the horse. I tell Mama I want only a piece of myself: a tributary, a single tentacle, the edge of an atlas. But when I wake, I am as empty as ever. Saltwater, more mirror than glass, bones softened with milk. Even Nüwa does not know that my ancestors are shaped from clay, even she cannot imagine such a distant winter sky. The Lunar New Year thickens like duck blood soup. I open my mouth and find mollusks, memory of brine. Sentences soft as gloaming, a map between the body and its history.

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Ode to Suburbia Summer now. We miss time, forget to sleep. City-glint hurtling through mountain and cow country, lights distant as pink moons. The ceiling fan lops off the ends of words. Landmarks named by the lines of my bare feet—saguaro, prickly pear cacti, spray of chickweed. Brother asks why a comet doesn’t hit already, why we don’t take a rocket ship to the moon. This place is a drive-thru. I give him my last butterscotch to hold on his tongue, escape sliding into the gutter thick and fast. Even as he says he’s dying to get out, come August, the two of us will still stalk the road, picking pearls of salt from under fingernails. We make magic with a deck of cards, prop our feet on the kitchen ledge. Mama stirring gumbo, sinking cherries in a gallon of liquor. She sighs when she sees us. My brother and I, always waiting for something more. Moths shudder out of the streetlight like goldenrod. Across the cul-de-sac, the neighbor feeds potatoes to crows. Piece by piece. Dollar bills tacked to her fridge door, puckering under my gaze. Not enough for exodus, for deluge. For anything, really. We wait, jammed to the window, fingers pressed to dusk, our breath on the white-chip glass.

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JOR DAN FER DMAN Creative Nonfiction | Professional Children’s School, New York, NY

We Do Not Apologize Now We are in tenth grade and she cannot be older than thirty. She is new to our school as we are new to womanhood and when boys in class cut us off, she does not even glance their way. Her eyes remain fixed on us, even as our voices dwindle, and she wouldn’t tear her gaze away until we had finished our thoughts with a period. When our voices dance into octaves, concluding our thoughts with question marks or apologies, she lifts a manicured eyebrow and shakes her head to coax us onwards to a resounding conclusion. Her personal life is infinitely interesting to us. She does not wear a ring, but we think she is too pretty to not be married. We also know she would find deep flaws in that line of thinking, but we can’t bring ourselves to care too much; outside her class, we learn quickly that pretty is the best thing we could hope to be. We wonder if, when she looks in the mirror, she is happy with what she sees. We wonder if the men in her life treat her well. We wonder how she comforts her friends when the men in their lives don’t treat them well. We wonder if she thinks about us when we are not at school. She assigns exuberant amounts of weekend homework, and though we never discuss it, we think that is deliberate. We hope that she wants us safe in our rooms on a Saturday night, kneeling over a textbook instead of some boy. She assigns more homework than any other teacher, and though we text each other nightly complaints -- how much time does she think we have? -- assignments are always finished with cherubic yearnings for “good job!” scribbled across the top in red ink. We exist in a constant state of anticipating praise, of batting our eyes and shrugging down our shirts and hoping to be good enough. In her class, praise does not come with soreness and pain. In her class, we do not ice our throbbing knees with praise, but paste it in our notebooks as a reminder that she cares. The boys in our class do not like her much. They say that she is a bitch, and though we can’t quite articulate it, we know that they cannot think of any other words to insult her. Once, when she raised her arm to write on the whiteboard, she revealed a small stain of dampness under her arm and the boys snickered. She did not notice, or if she did, she didn’t react, and we stared at her, wondering how she was able to be so unabashedly human. She does not say anything when one of us leaves the classroom with crinkling plastic up our sleeve, or comes in ten minutes late with red-rimmed eyes. Doesn’t hide her horror when we recount what the old math teacher whispered as we left the room. Doesn’t apologize for cursing, doesn’t apologize for anything. Imagine her... we start our sentences, draped over each other in the library or on the bus. The latter half usually involves something sexual or banal -- as we learned quickly, some things are both -- and it is unclear which is more exciting. Does she have three emergency Midol, two tampons, and a Hersey’s Kiss tucked in the front pocket of her bag? Does she refuse to go down on boyish men, does she ask them why they want her mouth for their pleasure and not her words? We wonder what she was like in tenth grade. We wonder if she looked down at her thighs and wanted to disappear, if she cried while getting her bikini line waxed, if she drank too much and did homework on Sunday with a hangover. We wonder if she was always the way she is now, and deep down, we hope not. We hope she found it somewhere, and we hope that it’s out there for us too.

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S A M U E L G E TA C H E W Spoken Word | Oakland Technical High School, Oakland, CA

brooke step / breathe / step breathe / step breathe / step breathe / step breathe step breathe run / run / run / run / it’s all you know how to do / isn’t it? / can’t throw or catch / can’t hit a ball with a bat / can’t kick a ball into a net / can’t do any of the shit real men do but / you sure can run / can’t you / run / run / run / away / on the days when the rain makes the lake swell and overflow / i remember how aklile wrote my name six years ago / hammered the amharic beruku into brooke / with the crudeness of english letters trying to build something they have no business attempting to shape / and i feel myself become water / become a brook / become an overflow / trying to escape something it had no business attempting to be a part of in the first place / become running water / running / gunshot fires / running / bodies surge at the starting line / running / a boy falls / running / we trample him / running / he gets up anyways / running / his coach yelling from the sidelines / a boy falls / and we trample him anyways / running / nothing is more important than the race / nothing is more important / than running / on the days / when the rain makes the lake swell / i remember how my body cried out / overflowed / cracked at the knees and fractured at the shins / begged me to stop running / on the days when the rain makes the lake swell / i remember how i only speak in excess / only understand how to love too much / of a bad thing / or too much of a good thing / for the wrong reasons / i remember how my body begged me to stop / and i kept running anyways / kept running / running / running / the lake cries out / body swollen / from too much of a good thing / and the rain laughs / keeps running / a boy cries out / body swollen / from too much of a bad thing / but he keeps running anyways / a boy falls / and we trample him / still running / because nothing is more important / than running / beruku? / are we still running?

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justice for i tried to write a poem for george. / and breonna. / and tony. / and elijah. and none of them made it past a scribble / past a draft / past the passing thought / that i could leave the name and the details blank / and this would be the same poem / that i’ve been writing since i was 14 years old / and i am so tired / of explaining why i’m tired / of viral videos / and an america that says / that if she does not get to watch a dying man’s last breath / that if she does not get an open casket funeral / a published photograph of the corpse / she cannot say for certain if he lived / or died / so tired / of an america that says / that if she does not get to watch the bullets / enter his heart in real time / then she cannot be certain that he wasn’t / too loud / or too tall / or too resistant / or cannot be certain / that he did not deserve to die after all / see legend has it / that if you resist your oppression / i mean resist arrest / america will kill you in cold blood / and then turn around / and offer her condolences to the family / offer black squares and kneeling cops / offer apologies from the institution / built on your bones / send your family to a funeral / and then ask why they weren’t present for the political process / continue to build rooms / and name them after you / with no intention of allowing your people inside / i am so tired / of explaining why i’m tired / of yard signs and street murals / of mlk quotes out of the white moderates he fought against / and mlk boulevards / in every state of a union that assassinated him / and in every major city of a country / that will kill you / only to give a teary-eyed eulogy at your burial / with its knee still on your children’s necks

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ZO E G O L D E M B E R G Design Arts | Design and Architecture Senior High School, Miami, FL

Medusozoa Process Sketchbook pages, pen, marker, colored cardstock paper, prototype in middle right made using 3D printed PLA plastic filament, sketches along bottom using printouts of MAYA design with pen and marker overlay 2020 128

Medusozoa AutoDesk MAYA, Keyshot 2020 129

ARIAH HAMBURG Design Arts | Design and Architecture Senior High School, Miami, FL

Process for wet drapery Photoshop, Procreate, pencil, cardboard, glue 2020 130

Orchid gown Muslin, paper joint tape 2020 131

ASHER HANSEN Spoken Word | Davidson Academy, Reno, NV

of rhyme and revelry dreams of glittering glass come to me at night waves of raving madness and delicious hearts a dance to the death for fairies and dreamers the singers: eyes wide, sideways grins, cheeks stained a hellish violet dancing, decanted, designer posh shells around a hurried, beating box maple-glazed, drug-mazed stuffed with laudanum and love ephemeral the stadium: taxidermied warblers flitting like flies in a honey-trap tiny teacups whirring as they pour, pour, pour on their own like little fossils falling out of amber and the nutriment! tables teetering with chocolate delights blueberry beer and marzipan fingers a feast fit for a traitor god and the ballerinos: ruddy with twilight and afterglow three-space starry licorice shadows wrapping their bodies flush against their flesh, cheeks flushed and fingers flying controlled by some infernal puppet master singing the blues and sipping cider from the wrong half of an apple cleaved in two a temperate bouquet of electricity and so it begins; the king sets off the fireworks and they’re falling; they are so many twisted lampreys shrieking for absolution abnegated into a thousand parcels that fall onto the night sky to live there it’s an exercise in perfidy; during the night each dancer must take a flaming eel and hide it under his obsidian cloak, quenching its light like a foiled will-o’-the wisp of course, he must complete the abstraction when the moon isn’t looking; when her crystalline eyes are distracted by the beautiful party and the colors manufactured by the devil-song every so often, a dancer will fail to steal a spark or else refuse his duty he is gone the next night and no one asks why

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and in the early, early, early morning when the festivities are over and the moon can see sharp once again she begins to sob; her glistening tears turning into a shriek and a bellow all at once a cacophonous rumble that bursts the sunrise into red and yellow and purple and pink a sort of global synesthesia that enchants the dawn she cries because her children are gone and the king sits in a castle on a hill greasy braids and a fur-laden coat his face a blueprint for a billion carbon Adonises he sniffs at his breakfast, he sees something squirm and stabs at it! and it’s gone and he picks up his pewter tankard and guzzles turpentine and he burps a land mine into nova every so often, a lamprey will survive, up there in the glitter-drenched sky it will sigh and start to swim toward the moon its serpentine body wiggling in an off-kilter beat ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-ba-dum: it smiles a sort of grotesque grin that turns its body inside-out it may be made of flimsy dreams but today it owns the universe

the queen speaks I am Titania queen of the hummingbirds empress of eventide duchess of the dry, dreary morning hours when the bees complete their work my court of fools knows no match; they charge, gladiators, alongside my treacherous champion while I watch from the heavens and cackle while I don Circe’s crown. I favor my acolytes, flitting from man to man like a thunderbolt breaking hearts like blades of grass detached, ethereal, as we fly into fall I am Titania deceived by a donkey and fallen to earth shocked into sentience by the cruel face of freedom a mirror so honest that none dare love it there is no country for the old maid and no city for the woman scorned wings clipped, teeth chipped, lipstick a bordeaux stain on the wrong man’s sleeves charmed, but chattel nonetheless I am Titania a lover and a whore a thief of hearts and helpless babes who just wants something of her own

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M AY H AT H AW AY Creative Nonfiction | Stuyvesant High School, New York, NY

Mother Tongue I. Immigrant Narratives My mother is my mother is my mother. I say this on days where my mother has all but slipped away from me, when it feels like I have disappeared from her mind (and, for that matter, her line of sight). On these lonely days, my mother is just not there. She stands in the living room, staring at nothing or humming to herself. She gets absorbed in her work or a phone call or a really good blog post, and no one can break through to her. My father once joked, “Maybe if we text her, she’ll respond.” It didn’t work. On other days, I alter my mantra to fit her anger: My mother is not my mother is not my mother; I know it is an angry day when I cannot recognize her. My mother is not my mother when she screams at me for spilling water and points an accusing finger at the blooming stain on her cotton placemat. My sharp, shrunken mother who hovers at my doorway while I’m doing homework just to glare at me is not the same mother who played Mozart tapes in the car while I was in the womb because she had heard that it would help fetal brain development. My lovely, gentle mother who brews me extra strong green tea while I study for tests and leaves encouraging notes under my pillow for me to read each morning is not the same as the one who once locked me out of our apartment because my voice was “too much to deal with.” My mother read me Gertrude Stein when I was far too young to understand any sort of poetry. On one of her in-between days, at the dinner table, my mother asked me, “Do you remember which poet I read to you when you were little?” I stared at her, skeptical, and pushed my food around on my plate. “I have no idea. Shel Silverstein?” She clucked in disapproval. “No. Gertrude Stein.” “Are you serious? That was you?” I’d always thought that my father did it. All of my bedtime story memories feature my father and a mother-shaped indent on my bed after she had finished tucking me in. I stared at her at her in disbelief, but she didn’t look up. “Just eat your food,” she sighed. “How come you never told me you read Gertrude Stein to me when I was younger?” I demanded the next day. My mother was cooking pea shoots in garlic, and it was hard to hear her response over the crackling of oil in the wok. “What do you mean? I always read you good books.” When my mother is on the verge of arguing, her voice often takes on a beautiful lilt. “Yes, but Gertrude Stein! ‘A rose is a rose is a rose.’ You read me poetry as bedtime stories? When I was five? That’s hilarious.” “I was studying.” She said this last word with a sort of fury, and her voice was smaller, muffled by the sound of stir-fried vegetables. It’s times like these that I remember she learned American culture through textbooks. She watched Friends for homework and dissected all the jokes, confused as to why Americans found any of it funny. I once borrowed her copy of The Old Man and the Sea for a school assignment and found the margins filled with her loopy handwriting. She’d praised Hemingway at dinner that night: “I like him. He’s so direct. Gets right to the point.” On days like these, I want to ask her, did you like Gertrude Stein? Did you like reading to me? Which you were you when you read me stories? 134

Sometimes, I think that my lonely days are my mother’s happy days. Yes, her physical body may be here at home, but her mind is somewhere else, in her real home. Maybe my angry days are her lonely days. Maybe she misses her real home, where all of her angry days and lonely days and happy days could blend together into just regular days, months, and years. II. Ducks in a Row My mother’s English is like a duckling—it remains still not fully fledged, an almost-mature duckling from which we expect very little. In another time and place, perhaps, we would have called it a lame duckling, but in our time and place, “lame” is used for things like the Sophomore Caucus bake sale, not the way my mother presses her lips together in defiant silence each time my father corrects her pronunciation with an edge in his voice. My Chinese, however, is a cracked plate; it was once whole but has now been shattered by years of carelessness and neglect. No matter how I try to glue the pieces back together, no matter how many Chinese dramas I watch with subtitles, no matter how many times I try to navigate the pinyin keyboard on my phone, there are always missing fragments that have already been crushed to a fine dust. And yet, when I think of ducklings, what comes to mind is not my mother’s linguistic abilities (or lack thereof ) but of the rare afternoons my mother was willing to go on a walk with me to the nearby duck pond, where we stood on the spongy grass and stared at the glassy surface of the pond. “Ta men hui fei ma?” I asked. Can they fly? or, will they fly? My mother paused for a second and then said, “I think they’re happy like this.” III. Babble I attended my first and last pool party when I was seven. I laid on my magenta towel next to my best friend and we gossiped about our crushes, passing a plate of Goldfish back and forth while our classmates shrieked in the chilly water. Our bathing suits were varying shades of orange and yellow and pink; from a distance, we must have looked like lollipops. The early summer air was restless—we were all desperate to finish first grade and move on to more exciting prospects like Fourth of July barbeques and sleepaway camp. The adults were chatty as always, but the sound of splashing water drowned them out. I licked the salt off my fingers, which were still shriveled from hours spent in the pool. Near the end of the pool party, I kept asking Mrs. Schneider, my best friend’s mom, what time it was. I was terrified that I would somehow miss my mother’s strict 5 o’clock pick-up and that she would leave without me. “Why doesn’t your mom just come here to pick you up?” she asked after the third or fourth time. “She says that it’s really hard to find parking,” I said in a mousy voice, trying not to make eye contact. I was still at the age when lying to adults was difficult. I didn’t want to tell her the somewhat humiliating truth: that my mother wouldn’t come in because she was afraid of misspeaking. My mother pronounces “towel” as “tower.” Though she prides herself on figuring out the proper way to use pronouns and limits her vocabulary because she doesn’t want to misuse it, she has never quite perfected this distinction. Her clunky mispronunciation used to mortify me (“When my friends are around, can you please just not talk?”), but I developed a sort of defensive anger when I saw my blond neighbors snicker at her as

she struggled during brief mailbox conversations. Still, I couldn’t help but think that everything would be easier if my dad were the one picking me up. He would come to the backyard with a wide smile and make small talk with everyone. He would walk with me back to the car instead of making me search for it on my own. When my mother came to pick me up after the pool party, I gathered my belongings in my arms and dumped them in the backseat. Too used to my habits, my mother ran through her checklist: “Goggles?” “Yes.” “Bathing suit?” “Mm-hmm.” “Snacks?” “Yeah.” “Tower?” “Oh.” The slick grass stuck to my ankles as I ran towards the backyard. “Has anyone seen my tower?” I asked, too out of breath to properly filter my speech. I realized my mistake too late as I was met with a sea of confused faces. “Honey, do you mean ‘towel’?” Mrs. Schneider asked, and my cheeks flushed. “Um, yeah.” My classmates who had been so lively earlier were suddenly quiet, and I thought I heard one of them giggle. My hair fell into my eyes as I bent down to pick up my magenta towel, and I ran faster this time, not caring about the grass or the wind, just wanting to get inside and away. When I finally reached the car door, I clung onto my towel and cried into it on the way home (I told my mom it was just the chlorine). IV. Motherland In New York, summer makes the city move faster. We stand, cramped, on sticky subway floors, stray hairs clinging to our foreheads and necks. We sip lemonade and beat the soles of our shoes into the concrete sidewalk. Trips to the beach are a temporary respite that pass by too quickly: we come home with too much sand in our flip flops and slight sunburns on our noses. The opposite is true on the other side of the world. I spend every other summer in Shanghai, where I inhabit a new body and the heat stretches time out like taffy. Shanghai is the only place where my mother really exists. She jokes with her cousins in rapid-fire Mandarin while I stare at tables stacked high with plates of soup dumplings and glasses of soy milk. Here, she is no longer confined to awkward English syllables that don’t fit in her mouth. She smiles regularly, her volatile emotions suddenly easy to track. My father doesn’t exist when my mother and I are in China. Or, actually, only his disembodied face exists, maybe a little more washed-out than usual. He calls us occasionally over Skype, but we rarely pick up. In the beginning of each summer, I am no more than my father’s daughter, slightly too quiet and far too pale-skinned. I push myself to adapt anyway, driven by my mother’s rare and infectious happiness. I read English picture books to my younger cousins and watch my aunt make scallion pancakes, oil sizzling in the shallow pan. I watch Chinese television shows and talk about plot twists over dinner, chopsticks still shaky in my hand. And then just as I begin to perfect my Shanghainese pronunciations and memorize the layout of the neighborhood, the summer ends. Shanghai summers feel like forever to me, but they must pass by like New York summers for my mother. When we arrive at JFK every other September, her lips seal once again and mine open as we switch motherlands. Even so, there’s a moment on the flight back, our heads tilted towards each other as we fall asleep, when all the versions of my mother exist at once. We don’t need to speak to understand it.

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THOMAS HICKS Photography | Fine Arts Center, Greenville, SC

Sunny Side Is Open Digital photography 2017 136

Pomelos Digital photography 2019 137

SHUI HU

Visual Arts | Lexington High School, Lexington, MA

Corona Life (1) Charcoal on paper 2020 138

Corona Life (4) Charcoal on paper 2020 139

CO R I N E H UAN G Poetry | Stevenson School, Pebble Beach, CA

when the emperor’s clothes were revealed he was wearing a white shirt that reminded me of wet flour. a bulbous landscape, convulsing against the grain & at its nervous system, & cracking where the water left it behind. the imprint of a drought, a whip, & a nail. i missed the emperor’s acknowledgments to the house, the pillar & salt water; to be the husk of a nationhood that un-defeats its own center & drills for marrow in metalized bone. a womb stolen from its appetite & incubating passengers into colonists. i missed them when they metaphorized. is this what it’s like? to forget the faces you once kissed & the texture of a balled hand in your own cheek? the impression of a mother tongue like an ornamental stain & forking apart flour-washed atlas, the world falling to his hands & congealing a mesh of bloodied tea leaves? if only i could tell how i’d changed since the stroke, how my body became stellate & splintered by a thousand lights. the silk had precursored my prostrate & its noose cut into my mouth, under my lips, between my throat. i use my tongue for clothes & i run out of tongues.

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Doing Penance after Chen Chen

What do you remember about the sky? Soft like a hand. Hung & bestiary, the hollowbone of a buoyant wrist. Almost lucent under the buttons of pitch, mounting the window by a bird & listening for its squeal. Only that suspension, that viscous mantle muscling light into the corpse; only her withering, breathing into itself & breathing itself in. My mother pleats thinner skins & teaches them to hold permanent shapes. 1. The texture of a body; 2. the portrait of a maiden name. How do you pray? Only when night is like a fist against my eyelids. I let myself listen to the birds––shrilled arias, a caged pendulum & a wound-up throat. The climax where we surrender our gasps, the cadenza & our budge; the weight of a bell jar, tunneling. A center, repositioned & shimmering like the magpie’s eye. Tonight, their song is post-prismatic. Who was the last person that betrayed you? My mother is 25 when she starts throwing eggs into the air & wills one to crack against the scalp of a god. Dribbles its forehead with her name, her bruised rind, her wrinkled limbs pre-breaking the shell. The sonata’s first shape looks like a giver, unhanding the lilt & returning the arms to the body. A center that will not hold if it’s made of canons. What are you afraid of? One day, I will forget my palms. The roads will untangle & I will unlearn the silence that traces the beak. To me, who grew up with parents, there will not be an apocalypse so long as there are magpies to voice their fantasies––abridged operas & no misplaced coda to overstress syllable. When the birds abandoned the bridge & dropped its celestial footsteps, they undressed like feral children & ran out.

Who was responsible for the ruin? To me, who grew up in a country of postcards & mothers, the birds are not a song. My hearing is a map & an heirloom, a cartographer’s dream when she exhales in tune with the quill. Exhales a quiver, puts her hands together & releases the air, confesses the syllogism & the razer: you know, we’ve done all that we can. How do you remember the earth? I cut against the grain & hope the enzymes will tender me something delicate. Something overcooked & dry & celebratory that will string apart on a banquet table & wrap around the cutlery like a corset. Some tongue that doesn’t turn into a utensil under pressure, steam that balances bodies & reverses the blind pendulum’s hurtling. The egg that doesn’t crack unless we hold it. How do you pray? There is a song reserved for stirring & resistance, inspired by the flat breastbone & emptying from the bosom & made from bleached fat braising carrion envelope. My mother is 25 when she first thinks about children, stirs the liquidated flesh & leaves the bones to their own resonance. Body escapes the dry-bottomed pot. The wingless bird usurped & its nest evicted from the crooked mantel. What I mean by dry is boneless & what I mean by overcooked is insurrection. What are you afraid of ? What I mean is my mom pressing her hands together, pressing through the skin, pressing me into a good daughter. What I mean is midnight & god’s magpies breaking their hollow bones, & my mother, across, braiding a lineage.

When was the last time you saw the sky? I let myself kill time. A song at daybreak, the gentle vibration of a throat against a wineglass, the moment she exchanges her rolling pin for a flute. I have been treacherous for so long that I don’t remember the colors of the birds, only the terrified feathers & slender flutter against my eyelashes, falling asleep in a gaze.

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ISABELLA JIANG Play or Script | Cresskill High School, Cresskill, NJ

Ants FADE IN: INT. MEI and JACE’S HOUSE - THE BATHROOM - EARLY EVENING. MEI, 16, stoops over the sink, razor in hand, her foot pressed against a door. The sky is visible through the little window by the tub. The sink is bloodied, and fills gradually with standing water. The faucet sputters, splashing onto MEI’s shirt. As MEI watches, her hands hovering over the vanity--then freezes, jolted by a frenzied knocking at the door. It’s JACE, 17, MEI’s brother. Mei, are you done?

JACE

MEI scrambles to put things back into a cabinet: scant flashes of hardware, little tools we can’t yet see. JACE I need to go really bad... MEI plunges her hand into the water. She clasps the drain between two fingers, shakes it about, digs at it with a fingernail-JACE I’m telling you, I’m going to pee my pants right here... --and claws harder with one hand, the other reaching out forcefully to run the water-JACE Better believe it! Right here, on your bedroom carpet! The sink unclogs, and MEI snatches the razor, unsheathed. She shoves it into her pocket, then tears her hand away in pain: it’s cut, though shallowly, in a single three-inch stroke. Without warning, JACE opens the door. JACE You ass! I thought you’d fallen asleep on the toilet again or something-EXT. MEI’S HOUSE - THE NEXT DAY. MEI, standing in front of a house nearly identical to those which surround it, wears a clean long-sleeve, jeans, no shoes. Her right hand is loosely wrapped in gauze. She walks across a patch of brown grass, holding a cellphone to her ear. She rolls up her sleeves, then pulls them back down. Cut to: JACE, straddling a BICYCLE too small for his frame, weaving around shrubbery towards home. At the front lawn, he meets MEI. JACE Where in the car did you put the boxes? Backseat or trunk? MEI (mumbled) In the backseat. What? Backseat. If they colonize -You know --

JACE MEI JACE MEI

MEI and JACE both stop, avoiding eye contact. JACE Wait, you go ahead. Please. MEI What? Sorry; I cut you off. You were saying?

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JACE I -- nothing. Just, it’d be unfortunate. You know, if they colonized in the car. Yeah.

MEI

(beat; she turns to look at him) Is that it? What?

JACE

MEI Is that all you were going to say?

JACE No, I -- I mean, it would suck pretty bad if they did. Once they establish themselves, after like, a night, they’re stupid hard to get out.

(beat; he lets out a tense laugh) I mean, I know from when Grandma’s house got infested with, like, cockroaches -MEI Could you, get to the point? Okay, I -Yeah. It’s fine.

JACE MEI

JACE So I meant, just, about the ants --

MEI No, I don’t mean the ants. What the hell -- they can eat up my whole car, I don’t care! I’m talking about -- damn it! What you saw last night. (a painful beat.) Well?

She stares, waiting, at JACE. He stares back.

Another beat.

JACE I don’t know what you want me to say. (feigning sincerity) What happened to your hand? I didn’t think you had that (he gestures toward the bandage) yesterday. MEI I can’t believe you. You know what I’m talking about. What? Ridiculous.

JACE MEI

JACE Actually -- are you screwing with me right now? Just shut up.

MEI

JACE You’re the one asking -MEI You’re an insensitive fuck.

JACE Are you crazy? Did you go out and -- (his eyes widen and his voice goes low) ...were you drinking today?

He grabs MEI’s arm; she flinches.

MEI Mind your own business. Tell me --

JACE

MEI wrenches herself away and meets him with a glare. -- were you?

JACE (CONT’D)

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MEI

Fuck you, really. Were you? No! God.

MEI JACE MEI

JACE Well, you’re not yourself. (he throws up his hands, near-) (comically) You’re not yourself right now. MEI I’m asking if you have anything to say about what you saw yesterday! JACE I don’t know! What do you mean what I saw? MEI What, is this too awkward? Is this too weird? Are you going to tell everyone tomorrow? I’ll bet you’ve already told Pim and James! JACE I don’t know what you did in the fucking bathroom and I don’t want to. (beat, as he gathers all his rage) Are you always gonna be like this? This isn’t edgy or whatever the fuck you think it is. It’s just fucking sad. A cold silence. JACE looks at MEI, then quickly ahead. He waits until he can no longer. Well? I guess -Yeah, you’re right. (beat) What?)

JACE MEI JACE

MEI You’re right. I get it. Sorry. Okay then. I’m sorry. Fine.

JACE MEI JACE

MEI I’m just going to go. Where?

JACE

MEI I’m just going -- I’m just going to go to the bathroom. JACE What -- why? What does that even mean! (he swallows, softens.) What do you want from me? He reaches again for MEI. She lurches away with full force, hands fisted, an elbow flying wildly-What the -What!

JACE MEI

JACE Stop -- seriously! Shit! JACE clutches his nose. MEI is terrified.

144

MEI I--I’m gonna go inside. Stay here; I’ll get some ice.

MEI gets to her feet unsteadily, and begins to head inside. Wait.

JACE

MEI turns around. Her face is stony.

MEI I’ll get you some ice. MEI starts for the door again. I’m sorry.

JACE

(he falters) I wish I could help.

MEI I don’t want to hear this. I’m sorry, I don’t. Mei --

JACE

MEI Oh Mei, just start with the small. Take a baby step -- I swear things would look brighter if you’d just change your mindset -- it’s the same shit, over and over, and I -Mei, please --

JACE

MEI Oh Mei, you just want so much. You want and you want and it’s too much. (MEI turns to look out at the darkening sky) It’s too much. Mei, I --

JACE

MEI Forget it. Damn it, forget it.

MEI bows her head. She fumbles through her purse, retrieves a tissue, and holds it out to JACE in a limp hand. MEI I’m sorry. You shouldn’t // have to -// Stop.

JACE

Uncertainly, JACE reaches for MEI’s arm. She watches him with wide eyes. He takes a finger in his grip. They stay, him seated and her mid-step at the doorway, in silence for more than a few beats. JACE You’re my sister, and I -- I’m here. (beat) By the way, wheat semolina. What?

MEI

JACE Wheat semolina, if you have it. It’s basically cream of wheat; ants eat that shit up in like seconds. They love it and then they explode. (beat) No joke. They blow up, and there’s, like, ant viscera everywhere. Boom.

He searches MEI’s face anxiously.

JACE Or you can try the more traditional fix. It’s like this specific mixture of lemon juice, borax, and coffee grounds, in measured portions. It’s... complicated. MEI (rolling her eyes) Fucking nerd.

( JACE lets out an awkward chuckle, which rings dumbly in the air.)

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INT. DOWNSTAIRS - KITCHEN - DUSK. CUT TO: The light shifts, grows bluer and bluer, as we move through brief shots of JACE situating himself at home. He kicks off his sneakers, then starts the VOICE MAIL. He starts to do the dishes. CUT TO: INT. UPSTAIRS - MEI’S BEDROOM - DUSK. MEI undresses slowly before a mirror, going through the motions, her eyes glassy. She is turned, away from view. An ANT scuttles out from the inside her jeans, hastens across her calf. MEI screams and jumps, then drops her shirt. She collects herself and laughs, gaze following the ant, as do we. The ANT works its way across the hardwood, struggles up a wall, stumbles -- and disappears, swiftly, through a crack in the gridded screen. FADE OUT.

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T I F FANY J O H NSO N

Photography | George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology, Baltimore, MD

Timeless Thought Photography 2020 148

Revelation Photography 2018 149

PE N E LO PE J UAR E Z Photography | Harvard-Westlake School, Studio City, CA

Play and Pray Digital photography 2020 150

Old Birthday Parties Digital photography 2020 151

K E A K A M I YA

Play or Script | State College of Florida Collegiate School, Bradenton, FL

Empty Trains SCENE 1 ALMOST EMPTY TRAIN. There is a gentle hum of a subway train. MACY is standing, holding onto a handle. TREY lays face down on the floor. MACY sways with the trains movements and looks, concerned, at Trey. MACY

Are … are you alright?

TREY

No. (muffled)

MACY Oh. You really shouldn’t lay on the floor, you know. Millions of people’s feet have been on that floor. It’s actually really nasty… (muffled)

TREY

I don’t care. You could get really sick …

MACY TREY rolls over onto his back and lets out a long exaggerated sigh.

TREY I hope I do. I hope it’s a virus and it acts quickly and it ends my misery. Okay... There are worse ways to go. You’re not hurt, right? Only emotionally. Do I know you? If you did, you’d wish you didn’t.

MACY TREY MACY TREY MACY TREY

MACY Could I … can I help you somehow? Is there anything I can do? TREY You could go back ten years and tell me not to waste my time on stupid dreams. MACY Oh. You know, I’m pretty sure they did a study and subway floors were one of the germiest places in the world. You don’t say. Yes. You should really get up … 152

TREY MACY

TREY Well in that case, maybe if I lick it death will come quicker … TREY sticks out his tongue and acts like he’s going to lick the floor. MACY screams and covers her face. TREY starts laughing. TREY I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help it. It was too good. Too good of an opportunity. He’s still laying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. MACY

Oh my -- that was just mean!

TREY

Was it? I’m sorry. (Beat)

You keep giving me a hard time for laying on the floor, but you’re the one standing. I bet that overhead handle is downright infested. I wiped it off when I got on. With extra-strength Clorox.

MACY

He stares at her for a moment, mouth agape. TREY Of course you did. That still doesn’t explain why you’re standing. MACY

Why are you laying on the floor?

TREY

Why are you standing?

MACY

Why are you on the floor?

TREY

Why are you standing?

MACY

Why are you on the floor?

TREY

I don’t have the will to get up.

MACY

That seems pretty dramatic.

TREY

Nope. No it’s not dramatic enough.

MACY

Huh?

TREY I’m an actor, but not a very successful one. So I guess I’m not dramatic enough. MACY

An actor?

TREY

Not a very successful one.

TREY gets up off the floor. So maybe . . . not one at all. MACY That’s what you were talking about wasting fifteen years on? Acting? Yup. That’s why I moved to NYC. City of lights. You’re thinking of Paris. The windy city?

TREY MACY TREY

153

MACY

Chicago.

TREY

City of sin?

MACY

Las Vegas.

TREY

The city of angels?

MACY

Los Angeles.

TREY

That’s a real thing?!

MACY

Yes.

TREY

Then where the heck did I move to? New York City. The city that never sleeps.

MACY

TREY Well, that’s ironically fitting. Considering that we’re on a subway in the middle of the night. MACY

Yeah. There is an awkward moment of silence. The seat is germy.

TREY

Huh? You asked me why I was standing up. The seat is germy.

MACY TREY

Couldn’t you just “wipe it down”? Yeah, but then people look at me like I’m crazy.

MACY TREY

Hey, I won’t judge. It’s really okay. Do I know you from somewhere?

MACY TREY

I don’t think so. (Beat) So, what do you do?

MACY

I’m an accountant.

(Changing the subject) So what, you realized your career was ending or something and you hopped on a train to mope? TREY No. My career never started. And I hopped on a train to get back home. I had an audition. You’re an accountant? Yeah. Cool. So like, numbers and stuff. You could do my taxes! Um, in theory, yeah, I guess. 154

MACY TREY MACY

TREY

What’s your name?

MACY

Macy.

TREY

Trey.

TREY holds out his hand for a handshake. She doesn’t take his hand. He keeps talking, unbothered. Where you going, Macy? MACY

The end of the line.

TREY Me too. You know, you shouldn’t ride trains alone at night. Random guys might try to tell you about their failed careers. Technically, I asked. Plus, I carry pepper spray.

MACY

TREY And I asked about yours. Yet here we are, still talking about me. It just sucks, ya know? You’re young and you have dreams and then you try so hard just to realize that they’re called dreams for a reason. Because they aren’t real. MACY

Sure they’re real.

TREY If you still believe that, you haven’t been rejected as many times as I have. MACY You made it to NYC, didn’t you? That’s pretty real. You got an audition. That’s real. Auditions don’t mean anything if you don’t get jobs.

TREY MACY

Maybe you just need some patience.

TREY I tried to tell my bills that and they didn’t take it too well. I thought you were an accountant. Shouldn’t you know these things? MACY Can we stop talking about my career? Maybe you should get a day job. TREY I have three, “day jobs”. And I’m ready to give up. Why don’t you like talking about your career? Can’t be worse than mine. Worse depends on where you’re standing.

MACY TREY

Do you have a steady income?

MACY

Well, yes but-

TREY If you have a steady income, there is no way that your job is worse than mine. It doesn’t matter where you’re standing. MACY Trey. I went to college for four years to do something every day that people will change their major to avoid doing once. TREY

What do you mean?

MACY Kids change their major to avoid taking accounting one. I get up and do that every day, except harder because accounting one isn’t even that bad. TREY grins. What? TREY No, it just, I never went to college, but it sounds to me like you were just smarter than them. MACY doesn’t know what to do, so she smiles to herself. TREY gives an awkward laugh. 155

I guess that’s one way to think about it.

MACY

They are looking at each other, really looking and smiling just a little, forgetting. They’ve forgotten what they were talking about. MACY gives an awkward giggle. TREY’s face falls. Uggghhhhh! I can’t even compartmentalize.

TREY MACY

What?

TREY It was, like, a nice moment. And then I remembered why I’m here. I remember that this whole train ride is just a marker of my . . . inadequacy. That’s a big word for a guy who didn’t go to college.

MACY

She’s joking, but it’s delivered without confidence. He doesn’t cheer up. Trey, you’re not a failure. The audition was that bad? TREY

It was pretty bad.

TREY sits down in one of the seats. It was really bad. MACY

Bad enough to stay off the floor? This story is worthy of a serious telling.

TREY

MACY extensively wipes down the seat and sits down. MACY

I’m excited.

TREY

You should be.

MACY

It couldn’t have been that bad. I told the casting director she looked old.

TREY MACY

What?

TREY cradles his head in his hands. TREY I was trying to be nice, cause, you know, they are expecting these charismatic, like, great attractive guys who are charming or whatever - so you always, you know, try to be extra nice and like whatever so I was trying to compliment her and it just . . . it went really, really bad. I’m not joking. Insanely bad. MACY

Like, you actually insulted her, bad? TREY

Yeah. I mean, it was an accident I was just nervous and . . . But I still had a little hope cause I’ve known plenty of jerks that have gotten hired. So I get the sides - you know, the little script sheets - and I’m doing my audition and the word “drawer” comes up? He says a very mangled version of the word “drawer”. MACY looks confused. TREY (still saying it wrong ) Drawer. Drawer. Draw-er. Oh! Drawer.

MACY

TREY Yeah. I can’t say that word. I know I’m just an idiot, but I really can’t say it right. Like, it just won’t come out of my mouth today. And the whole freaking scene was about dr-dr- draw156

MACY

Drawers.

TREY

Yeah. I wanted to die. I’m sorry. I gotta give it to you, that sounds awful.

MACY

TREY I was so bad. You can just see it on their faces, ya know? They’re unhappy and embarrassed for you and you have to pretend that you don’t notice and it’s just… awful. MACY

I really am sorry.

TREY Thanks. And the worst thing is that I knew them. That was the same casting director from the commercial-MACY Oh my gosh! That’s where I recognize you from! You were in that commercial! (deadpan)

TREY

The diarrhea medicine commercial? MACY Well…it doesn’t matter what it was a commercial for. You still got paid. You were still in a commercial. TREY

It doesn’t matter? Are you sure?

MACY

Trey.

TREY I’m just saying, talking about my bowels on T.V. was not exactly something to write home about. MACY can’t help it, she laughs. MACY

It was still a job! (Cracking a smile)

TREY

Barely! But it’s worth it, right? To do something you love?

MACY

This gives Trey a pause. TREY I don’t know. I thought … I thought it was. I guess a few hundred cups of ramen noodles and a studio apartment that could fit on the head of a pin might be enough to change a man’s mind. MACY I think … I mean, deep down you must think it’s worth it. Otherwise, you would’ve quit already. Right? Yeah. I guess you’re right.

TREY

MACY You’re doing what you’re passionate about. That’s … exciting. Nothing about my job is exciting. Was it ever? What? Did your job ever excite you? I ... I don’t know. Then why did you do it?

TREY MACY TREY MACY TREY

157

MACY

It doesn’t matter. I mean, it kinda does. There had to be some reason, right?

TREY

MACY I don’t know. But it wasn’t like, “ a thing”, you know? Like my mom’s a teacher, and she can remember the exact moment she decided that that was her dream. She was working at a camp in eighth grade and she realized that she wanted to be a teacher and that she wanted to do that forever and then she did. I literally had no clue what I wanted, I was about to graduate high school and I had no plan. I just didn’t know and my parents got stressed and I got stressed and I just couldn’t handle it anymore. So when they asked me what my major was at orientation I just picked one near the top of the list. Accounting starts with an A. TREY

Huh. Yeah. I told you it’s not a great story. It’s lame.

MACY TREY

But you never liked it?

MACY I mean ... I don’t know. I told my parents that I’d had an epiphany and I wanted to study accounting. They were overjoyed. And then, I actually started taking classes … and I didn’t hate them. Accounting is boring, but it’s organized and safe and consistent. And it makes sense. TREY

It makes sense to you?

MACY

Yeah. It makes sense to me. That’s how I feel about scripts. They just make sense.

TREY

They sit together in silence for a moment. TREY You know, when I got on this train, I had my heart set on giving up. MACY

Don’t give up.

TREY I know. I have to keep going. Otherwise, I’ll never know if I would’ve … made it, right? He slides off the chair and resumes his spot on the floor, but now he is laying calmly, his hands folded over his chest, staring at the ceiling. Made it? Yeah. What does that even mean? Made it?

MACY TREY MACY

TREY You know, like, “I made it.” I guess, accomplishing your dreams. MACY But you made it to NYC. You made it to that audition. You made it here. You made it on that stupid commercial. You’ve already made it. You’re doing something you’re passionate about. You have passion and excitement and thrill in your life. Always looking for work doesn’t thrill me.

TREY

MACY Doing the same pointless things every single day doesn’t thrill me either. I guess we just have to decide if it’s worth it. What do you mean?

TREY MACY

TREY You have a stable job with a good wage and there’s things you like about it like, consistency and stuff. I have a super unstable job where I get rejected a lot, but I really, I really love it. Is it worth it? For a chance at making it? 158

MACY You’ve already made it. As soon as you figure out how to say the word “drawer” you’ll be the total package. TREY chuckles. TREY If anyone’s made it, it’s you. Besides, that’s not how it works. Then, why don’t you change how it works?

MACY

MACY walks over, hesitates, and then lays down beside TREY. This sucks. TREY

Yeah. But it could be worse. Beat. You really think I’m successful?

MACY Yeah. Most people couldn’t even consider doing what you’re going. The fear would kill them before they even got here. There is a sound of squeaking train breaks and they hold onto the floor to keep from sliding. We made it to our stop. It’s the end of the line.

TREY

MACY sits up. MACY

We made it.

TREY

We made it.

MACY gets up off the floor and offers TREY her hand. He reaches out to take it-BLACKOUT.

159

EMMA KERKMAN Short Story | Realms of Inquiry, Taylorsville, UT

Penny for a Finger Penny for a Finger The net in my hands is rough and slimy when I reel it in, the cold of the early morning water enough to make my fingers numb. Small shells and fish escape the holes when I hoist it over the side of my sloop, but I don’t pay them any mind. Shells and shellfish go for far less than fingers and toes. I empty the net into the bottom of the boat and sort through it, fish in the livewell, shoes in the bucket, fancy bits and baubles in my pocket. This net is never the most profitable—the best I’ve gotten from this spot is a hand with a ring, once—but it’s still good enough. Today, however, I’m lucky. Half a foot, bloated and distended, probably in the third or fourth stage of decomposition, but still intact enough to be recognizable. The skin is slimy and thin under my fingers as I turn it over, looking for something to tell me who it belonged to. There’s a brand on the ball of the foot—two four-pointed stars with a line through the middle—which should be more than enough to identify the owner. However, the brand probably means it belonged to an escaped slave or sex worker, so nobody would be looking to pay to get it back. Disappointing, but not unusual. I cast the net back into the river and watch it sink slowly, the white and red buoy attached to the end bobbing up and down in the rough wake from passing boats. Once I’m sure it’s going where it’s supposed to, I raise my sail and continue onward, stepping over the slew of seaweed, shells, and sludge lining the main deck where I haul up my catch. The amount of bodies in the river is surprising, if nothing else. Probably the most in the world, found here, at the heart of Steel City. It’s the biggest city in the province, the biggest river in the city, and the most dead people per capita anywhere in the world. I’d be worried about that, if people didn’t pay so much to get their loved ones back once the hapless fool makes a mistake and finds himself dead. Four years of pulling nets has provided some interesting insight into the goings on of this city. The work I do is less than reputable, but that puts me in the same shoes as the majority of the city’s residents, and the same shoes as most of the bodies I dredge up. Thankfully, I’m still breathing in mine. I’ve found people with bullet holes too perfect to be suicide, too imperfect to be suicide, and some who are just plain unlucky. I’ve hauled up prostitutes and slaves, yakuza bosses and hitmen, even an earl, once. I would be sick to my stomach in any other situation—even watching the red lights of the body barge go out to the Island at night makes me nauseous—but it’s hard to have pity for the fools when their family pay a hundred shillings for a finger, an eye, some teeth. Especially when they have no clue whose parts they really are. The last net of the morning is over near the Stack Bridge, the biggest thoroughfare between East Steel and West Steel—and also the best place to find fresh faces. I find my buoy about fifteen meters from where I dropped it off last night, having slid downriver with the lazy current, and it looks untouched. Good. All of us bodyfishers have markings on our property, and it’s our unspoken code not to touch other peoples’ stuff. The net comes up heavier than the last one, which either means I’ve caught someone’s trash thrown over the high walls at either side of the river, or I’ve found something good. The net scrapes my hand and grates over the side of my sloop as I reel it in, and it flops on my deck with a wet shhk-thwap. I stare down into it, and a pair of wide eyes stare back up. 160

I don’t usually see a lot of beheadings, but whenever I find one, I know I can rest easy that night. This guy will probably fetch ten thousand, maybe more, I muse, grabbing the head by the hair as I wrestle it free of its trappings. He doesn’t look like he’s from around here. Probably some foreign dignitary, with his reddish hair, pale skin, grey eyes. He looks young, too— mid-twenties, no older. The ragged end of his neck oozes a bit of blood foam around the trailing stem of his spinal cord. Not a clean cut, but a recent one—a hasty job that people didn’t want discovered. Interesting. I place the head in the parts bucket with less care than I probably should, and finish freeing the handful of squirming fish and crab from the net. There’s a set of fingers in the net, too, and a thin gold chain luckily wrapped around the ropes, probably churned up from the muck at the bottom of the river by the fish’s thrashing. The last one goes into my pocket, the net back in the river, and then I’m heading for port. The sun is barely up when I reach my berth. I’m just a little later than normal in my arrival, so the wharf is already half filled with the day’s fish vendors and bodyfishers. Quickly tying everything down, I unload my livewell into a large barrel, then loop a rope around the top of it and drag it off the sloop, onto the docks. Across the way from me, my neighbor, Norman, calls out. “Morning, Rell!” he says, jovial as ever, and I wave. “Hello, Norm. Anything interesting?” I ask, slipping the barrel rope over my head so it settles at my waist, against the thick leather of my belt. He grins, showing off the gap in his bottom front teeth, and looks a little too happy. “Hand with a wedding ring. Looks noble.” “Better hope the owner of the hand isn’t still living,” I reply, and he laughs. It’s a private joke most bodyfishers are in on—sometimes we’ll scoop up parts chopped off for punishment. The owners, if unlucky enough and alive enough to stumble across their own detritus, sometimes start a row with whatever bodyfisher caught the wrong hand. “I doubt it,” he says, scratching at the coarse beard growing down his neck. “Poor sucker probably lost more than just this hand. We’ll see if the constabulary comes lookin, then we’ll know.” Though my luck has been good and I’ve avoided the constabulary’s attention for the last few years, they occasionally come to us bodyfishers in search of something specific. Norman has found more thieves’ hands than any of us, so I’m sure if there’s a case on hand, they’ll go to him first. Norman waves me on, and I begin the slow trek across the docks, weaving in and out of the morning crowd until I make it to a small, inconspicuous shop front set back from the main walkway. A ragged blue and silver tapestry hangs off the side of the shack, and the front shutter bangs open when I knock twice on it. “Unka’ Rell!” the small girl in the window squeals, her face hidden in a nest of black curls that jiggle as one mass with her excitement. Turning, she shouts, “NAN! Unka Rell be here!” “Morning, Lod,” I laugh, and she bounces some more, looking about ready to climb out the window. “Whatcha got?” she asks instead, leaning out the window as an older woman with the same thick, curly hair appears behind her. Nandi Anne peers down at me and smooths her hair back, tying it down with a bandanna. “Ta, Merrel,” she smiles, calling me by my full name, as she always does. “Good morning?”

“For me? Yes. For you, not sure yet. Where do you want the barrel?” I ask, sliding the rope over my head, nearly upsetting the barrel. “Eh, just around back somewhere. We’ll bring it back later, with lunch, if you’re fine.” “I’m perfectly fine,” I smile back, and she reaches out to clap me on the shoulder. “Well, off you go! I’ll get you ya’ shillings tomorrow.” I nod in agreement, wave at her and Lod, and work my way back to my sloop. When I arrive, someone is standing near the end of the dock, surveying the row of bodyfisher boats, arms crossed over a stomach tucked in to one of those fancy waistcoats only noblewomen wear. “Can I help you?” I ask, and she turns, surprise bright in her silver eyes. To my surprise, she looks near the same as the head I fished up, except less dead. A sister, maybe? “You’re a body fisherman, yes?” she asks, an unusual accent thick in her mouth, downplayed slightly by her confidence. “I’m an everything fisherman,” I laugh, and she scowls. “I’m looking for my cousin. He looks like me.” “What parts?” “I beg your pardon?” “What parts of him are you looking for?” I repeat, having a little fun playing with her. “His head,” she replies, icily, and I raise both eyebrows in emulated surprise. “All right, hold it in, I’ll see what I’ve got,” I say, and she follows me as I return to my sloop. Her eyes singe my shoulder blades as I step up and over the side of the bow. When I return to my bits bucket, the head placed atop it earlier is noticeably missing. What in the hell? I duck into my cabin, to see if it may have rolled in on accident, but the floor is as empty and detritus-free as usual. Stomping back on deck, I check the bucket again, then look back at the girl. “Well, I had part of him, I think.” She raises an eyebrow as I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Had?” “Yes, had. It would appear that someone stole his head from my bucket.” Her expression twists into something foul, and I offer an apologetic shrug. Though the theft bothers me—she looks like she’d pay well—the weight of the gold chain in my pocket reassures me that I’ll still have enough for food. The look on her face has me rethinking where my worries lie. She spits out a string of foreign curses with enough venom to make me understand the implied meaning. “What do you want for it?” she asks, sounding tired as she catches my gaze. It takes me a moment to realize what she’s asking. “Lady, this is a more honest business than most,” I reply, rocking forward on my toes. “I ain’t hiding it from you. As I said, someone took it.” Her face pinches into an unpleasant expression and she looks away. “You’re sure you’re not messing with me?” “I’m sure. It doesn’t benefit me any,” I laugh. She curses again, and I get the feeling that cursing is a preferred response of hers. “Why don’t you check around with some of the other fishermen?” I suggest instead. “The river’s big, and there’s only one of me, so they might’ve found something else belonging to him. Nobody but a bodyfisher would have a use for a dead man’s head.” Which isn’t entirely true— many medicine makers or bounty hunters can make use of a skull—but she doesn’t need to know that. She doesn’t leave as I began hauling my bits bucket down to the dockside, preparing to dump it out in one of the crude wooden boxes at the end of my berth for passersby to sift through. She trails behind me and sits on a crate nearby as I start cleaning everything off with a bucket of water drawn up from the river. “What’s that mark on your hand mean?” she asks after a while, watching me scrub down a foot with a coarse brush, baring the bruised skin underneath for all the world to see. “Guild marking,” I reply, holding up the hand with the brush to show off the silvery-pink brand on the back. “Got it when I started this life.” “There’s a guild for body fishermen?”

“We call ourselves bodyfishers, and yes, but it’s just for show.” I put the foot in the box and reach in the bucket for something else. “Enough to keep the nosy official folks from questioning the legality of it all, that’s it.” Her steely gaze is scrutinous as she watches me rinse off a few mismatched fingers, rolling the bones in my hand like a roll of coins. “Why do you do this job?” she asks, innocently. I do my best to force back my rising irritation at her constant questioning, but it doesn’t work. “Don’t you have a dead cousin to go find?” I snap back, and those silver eyes look a bit affronted. “It was just a question,” she says, crossing her arms again, and I roll my eyes. “Well, I ain’t in the mood to answer it. I’ve got bits to attend to. So, if you don’t mind, good day…” “Loralie,” she says. “Loralie Meinung.” The weight of the name nearly knocks me over, but she doesn’t give me any time to process it. “If you just so happen to find his lost head, please bring it to me.” The distraught look on her face—combined with the fortune connected to that name—is almost enough to make me promise I will, despite how I doubt I could uphold such a promise. I nod in reply, and that seems to satisfy her. She mutters something I can’t make out— probably more curses—as she leaves, and I return to my work in a bit of a daze, my mind occupied with a swirl of questions. Remember your promise, I tell myself, scrubbing a few more fingers with more vigor than necessary. Don’t ask questions, don’t get invested. After repeating that statement enough, I forget about her, and shift my efforts to tending to the gathering of interested people in front of me. One woman finds her sister’s finger—by the scars, she claims—for ten shillies, and another finds his son’s ankle by that star brand for a hefty thirty shillies, but that’s all. The rest of the morning is quiet as the breakfast rush peters out, and it doesn’t pick up again until midafternoon. Of course, by then, the bits in the box are beginning to smell, no matter how many times I douse them with water to wash the ooze away, so once it becomes apparent no-one else is looking for anything, I tip the whole lot back into the river. As I wash up in the brackish water with a bar of lard soap meant for clothes, Lod and Nandi Anne walk up, Lod skipping as Nan clutches her hand in one and a basket in the other. “Anything good in that barrel?” I ask, putting the soap back in my apron pocket as I stand and dry my hands on my trousers. “Snapper, an’ an eel!” Lod grins, and Nan ruffles her hair. “And some otha’ thins,” she laughs. “We’ll make bank today, e’en with your fee.” “Good. Glad for that.” I watch as Nan pulls out a woven square of fabric to set the basket on, and settles onto the cobblestones as she unpacks the food. “Make something new?” “Eel pie an’ some boiled scallops. No potatoes, today—Corbin say they ha’ some weird mold on ‘em when he in this morning.” “Shame. It’ll still taste as good as ever, though,” I say, settling down next to her, scooping Lod into my lap with one arm as I reach into the basket with the other. Nan cracks open her scallop with her bare hands and slurps the muscle out in one motion, eyeing the shell when she’s done. “These ha’ been tasting worse and worse o’er the months,” she says, reaching for another one anyway. “It’s probably the water,” I laugh, smacking my clam on the stones until it cracks before handing it to Lod. “Been a bit smellier than usual. Probably some manufactory dumping weird junk in the river again. I’m sure it’ll be fixed in no time.” But as I suck down the innards of a scallop myself, I can’t help but notice she’s right. It tastes a bit more like bitters and copper than usual— and I’m sure it’s not Nan’s cooking, as she always makes sure things are cooked through before feeding anyone. Food poisoning isn’t a good way to keep business. The three of us eat in silence, moving on from the main course of shellfish to the desert of eel pie within the half hour, and that tastes perfectly fine, if a little bland. I’ve never liked eel anyway, but I eat it because it’s food and its Nan’s cooking, and she’ll smack me if I don’t. Lod kicks her feet and bounces her shells off her toes into the river, and Nan and I talk about our mornings, what we’ve seen, who we think might be interesting. 161

Soon enough, lunch is over and I have to get back to work, as do they. Nan packs up the basket while I twist Lod’s hair into twin braids—a bit uneven, but I’m getting better—and she squeezes me tight once I finish. I bid them good afternoon, and watch as Lod skips off towards their shop. Nan stays back for a moment. “Somethin’ bad is in the air today,” she says, turning those stern eyes on me. “It don’t taste right, either. You have care, now.” “Yes ma’am,” I grin, and though I tip my cap at her, she’s satisfied I listened to her, and walks away. I watch them go for a moment longer before climbing back on my boat. It takes me a few short seconds to cast off the mooring lines, and I wave at Norman as I push away from the rotting dock with a hearty kick. My nets don’t usually catch fresh things in the afternoon—it’s harder to dispose of people in broad daylight—but they sometimes catch older bits stirred up by the morning’s boat traffic. Oftentimes they snag the heavier things, like shoes and watches, or sometimes scrap metal I can make use of. Once, I found a lady’s frock—nothing much I could do with it but clean it up and sell it, but it makes a good story, at least. I make my rounds and start at the furthest net, closest to the farmland on the outskirts of the city. This net never pulls up much but fish, but the fish are still useful, especially for Nan and Lod. I haul the coarse hemp rope over the side and shake it out, showering the deck with some smaller yellow fish—more snapper, probably—and a few rocks and shells. The fish go in the livewell, the net goes back in the river, and I go back towards where I came. This afternoon is quieter than usual. The only ship I pass is the garbage ship, which stinks worse than the river. The captain waves me on as I cross in front of it to find another net. Seven nets later, I’ve reeled in more fingers and hands and a few pieces of scrap metal, as well as a nice leather boot, an old book, and a few jars of something I’m hesitant to identify. The last net, the one beneath Stack Bridge, is unusually heavy—again—as the rope scrapes up the hull and drops into my sloop. A pair of steel grey eyes stare up at me, and I stare back in mild surprise. That’s wonderful, I think, bemusedly, as I disentangle the severed head from the rope. I place his head back in my bits bucket and cover it with a tarp this time—better safe than sorry—and heave the net back in the river, paying little attention to where it ends up. Traffic has picked up again by now, so it takes me an unusually long time to return to my berth. I’m a little lost in thought as I go through the usual motions, tying up my ship, emptying my livewell into the barrel Nan returned after I left, and furling the sail. Ignoring the bits bucket, I scoop up the head in the tarp and wrestle it into a wicker bag before setting it in a secluded corner of the deck, fully intending to leave it there until later, when there isn’t more money to be made. I can still feel those grey eyes staring at me through the fabric, though. After a moment, I walk back and turn the bag away from me, and the pricking feeling goes away. Mostly. Aw, hell, I think, turning back to the bag with a poorly suppressed grumble. Those damn persistent eyes. Best to get this over with, then. I toss the bag over my shoulder and march off the deck, leaving my half-empty bits bucket for later. It’s difficult to ignore the stench of open sewers and rotten produce as I trudge past the throngs of people exiting the tall silver buildings towards the city center. Part of me wonders why I’m even going to this much effort to return a decapitated head to its closest living relative. Sure, it might pay my bills for a few weeks, but there’s equally enough money to be made back at the wharf. She better pay more than anyone else, if for nothing but the effort it takes to get this far downtown. As the sun disappears behind the tops of the buildings, I slip deeper and deeper into the darkness covering the streets. The crowd lessens and lessens, but even the few hollow-eyed people on the street corners pay me little mind. I wear the mark of a bodyfisher on my hand, and the apron around my waist—I probably stink of fish and decay, too, come to think 162

of it—which places me in a different realm than most. Not untouchable, but unwanted. I don’t know her address, just the general area I need to go, so I stop to ask a few squinty women smoking on a corner. At the name Loralie Meinung, they wordlessly point me down the street, the same direction I’ve been going. All of them. At once. I discover the reason for the slightly disturbing synchronicity when I reach the end of the boulevard. A wide metal gate marks the end of the street, and visible in the far distance is a tall pinkish mansion, barely distinguishable from the backdrop of trees and tall grasses. A footman at the gate notices my approach and steps in front of me as I reach the wrought-iron monstrosity, and I take a long look at her surname emblazoned in brass far above his head. “State your business,” he says, looking over the top of my head. I eye his silver uniform warily, and slip the bag over my shoulder. “Lorie—Loralie—sent me,” I reply, unwrapping the head. Lifeless eyes stare up at the footman, who stares down at the head like it isn’t the most unusual thing he’s seen all day. “Go in, then. Tell the doorman the same, and he’ll summon her.” The footman steps away from the gate and opens a smaller doorway set into the metal frame, the door sized for a human rather than a carriage or automated buggy. He locks it behind me when I step through, and I try not to let that knowledge bother me. Re-wrapping the head as I walk, I’m a little unnerved by the crunch of gravel—real gravel—underfoot, and the obvious display of wealth around me. Even if they’re the Meinung family, no-one can afford such expansive grounds in the center of the city unless they own a lot of the city, and anyone who owns a lot of the city probably does so by illegal means. Not that I’m in a place to judge, though—I don’t exactly work a legal job myself, and I’m sure the authorities are as happy with me as they are with any of the yakuza. Soon enough, the winding drive gives way to manicured gardens, ringed with small marble statuettes of the Muses and a number of other figures from ancient legend. The front doorway is twice as tall as me, brass inset into a walnut door probably thicker than the hull of my sloop. A brass knocker adorns each side, and I have to stand on my toes a little to reach one. A resounding thunk sounds when I let the knocker drop, and it seems a bit small of a sound to alert the whole house to my presence. The door swings in immediately, and I find myself eye to eye with another footman, this one dressed a little more extravagantly as the first. “State your business,” he says. I reveal the head again, and his reaction is a little more what I expect. “Loralie sent me,” I say, for explanation, and he sighs. “I’ll send for her. She’ll come down at her leisure. Feel free to make yourself comfortable—out here, please.” He shuts the door, and I stare at it for a few seconds before taking a seat on the front stoop. The pink marble is warm beneath me, and I can’t help but run my surely-grubby fingers over the smooth surface. It’s a far cry from the well-worn wood and mildewy cobbles of the wharf, that’s for sure. As I wait—with far more patience than I knew I possessed—a warm breeze washes across the grounds, sending the late summer grasses rippling like the river, and I’m so entranced by the view that I don’t notice Loralie’s presence until she taps me on the shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d actually come,” she said, arms crossed the same way as earlier as she stares down at me. She’s wearing a different dress— this one peach, and simpler than the blue one from the docks—but the same shoes. “You’ve found it, then?” Wordlessly, I unshoulder the bag and hand it to her. She opens the tarp, frowns at the severed head distastefully, and re-covers it. “I came straight here, to avoid a repeat of the first time,” I tell her, feeling the need to say something to break the silence. “Missed prime business time to bring it to you, you know.” “I suppose I should thank you profusely, then.” Sighing, she tugs at some of the pins in her hair, and sits down beside me. I start a little in surprise, and shift so we’re not so close. “Have you found the rest of him?” I eventually blurt, my curiosity getting the better of me, despite my efforts. She slips her hairpins

carefully over the cuff of her shirt. “Yes,” she replies after a long moment, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger. “It was delivered to our doorstep this morning. That’s how I realized he was missing in the first place.” Shaking her head, she finally turned to look at me. “I dropped everything to sail over here, you know. To prevent this from happening. He ran away from our family back home, you know. He left our protection. And this is the unfortunate result.” Curiosity continues to prickle under my skin, as irritating as a hole in the toe of my sock or an itch I can’t reach. Damn it all. “Ran away from what?” I ask, maintaining eye contact even though I know I shouldn’t be asking. I’ve already learned too much. “I can only guess. I… got here too late to find out,” she replies, voice quiet. Her tone isn’t sad. More… disappointed. “Can I ask you something?” I stare hard at the side of her face. “Depends.” “Why? Why did you… go to all this effort to return his head to me, someone you barely know?” There’s honest curiosity in her voice, and I shrug in reply. “I did it because you asked me to.” That was true enough. “But you wouldn’t do it for anyone, would you?” It’s a little surprising, how easily she sees through me. “I wouldn’t. But I figured you’d pay well, and decided to take that chance before someone stole his melon again,” I reply, lying through my teeth. Her expression closes off, and I ignore the guilt souring the inside of my mouth. “How much do I owe you?” she asks, speaking through a sigh. “Heads usually run upwards of a thousand,” I say, and I have to look away as her searching eyes catch mine. “It caused me a lot of trouble to bring this here, you know.” But that’s only an excuse. “Not enough trouble to be worth a thousand pieces,” she mutters, reaching under her frock coat for her purse. She slaps a wad of paper notes into my hand with more force than necessary, and I glance down at the unfamiliar words printed across them. “You might have to go exchange those somewhere, but it’s the only currency I have.” I turn the notes over in my hand and smooth them down. “Where are these from?” “Where I’m from,” she replies, standing. I follow suit. “Which is?” “Can’t you read?” “Only the local language.” “Oh. I suppose I didn’t think of that.” She offers a tight, apologetic smile. “The new continent, across the Adriatlantic.” “That’s a far way to come,” I reply, raising my eyebrows in surprise. That explained the accent, too. “Far, but not far enough,” she replies, staring down at the bag in her hands. “Not for him, anyway.” She reaches up and raps on the door twice, and I stuff my hands in my pockets as I turn to leave, wrapping my fingers protectively around the paper. “Now that you’ve been seen entering here, it’s best not to come back again,” she tells me, without a second glance. “Goodbye…” “Rell,” I tell her as the footmen opens the door. “My name is Merrel. And… good luck, Loralie.” She freezes, turns, looks me in the eyes. “With what?” “I’m not sure. But good luck.” She turns around without another word, and the door closes behind her. I stare at the back of the door, then leave, and that’s the one thing in life I most regret doing. I don’t think much of our conversation for the rest of the evening, too focused on the curl of the paper in my pocket and the weight of the gold chain in the other. I’m unbothered as I walk back to the wharf, and my pockets are heavy with coin after I step out of my favorite pawn shop. One bronze piece dances over my knuckles as I step into Nan and Lod’s stall, and I fill them in on the events of my evening over a late dinner of salted fish and hearth bread. Lod begs me to teach her the trick with the coin, and I teach it to her, then give her the coin after pulling it from behind her ear. My stomach is warm with food and drink when I return to my sloop, and I swing myself into my bunk with my clothes still on, barely pausing to strip out of my apron. The coins disappear into my trunk, and then I’m asleep heavier than a net during spawning season.

The next morning, a breakfast of old bread clamped firmly between my teeth, I return to my nets just as the top of the sun brushes the horizon. Long streams of ruby and gold sneak between the buildings and wash over me and my sloop when we reach the farm fields, and my nets come up easy. The lack of fish worries me less than it should, seeing as I have enough money to feed myself for a fortnight with no work, so I go about my morning like everything’s right in the world. When I reach the net beneath the Stack Bridge, it’s as heavy as it’s been the last two days. The old rope digs into my fingers as it scrapes over the side of my sloop, and the net lands at my feet with a wet shhk-thwap. Another foot, with a similar brand, and a hand with obvious bruises around the wrists— another escaped slave or sex worker, probably. Not the best haul, but good enough. It isn’t like I have much to worry about, anyway. The short ride back to the wharf happens in silence, and I spend the same amount of time tying up my ship, loading up my barrel, and bringing it to Nan’s. She thanks me in her usual manner and slips me a small case of alcohol without Lod seeing. “Just because,” she says when I open my mouth to ask her about it. She winks at me conspiratorially, but her playfulness doesn’t reach her eyes. When I return to my berth, bottle in hand, I see why. Norm is unloading his haul as I walk by. At the front of his box is a severed head, not unlike the one I found yesterday. So like it, in fact, I have a hard time not losing my breakfast into the scummy water two feet to my left. Norm sees me staring, and offers a wide smile, showing off the gap in his bottom teeth. “A damn lucky haul today, eh? Looks like whatever gods graced you yesterday moved on.” “Right,” I say, absently, popping the top off the bottle before draining a third of it in one pull. My cheeks feel distinctly warmer afterwards, but my stomach feels like it’s full of ice. “Pretty thing, her. Wonder what happened.” “I don’t. It ain’t my place to know,” Norm replies, and I’m reminded of something she said to me yesterday. He left our protection. And this is the unfortunate result. Silver eyes burn holes into my stomach, and I draw in a long breath. “You should’ve never come here,” I whisper, stopping just long enough to take in the rough edge of her severed skin, the mottled trail of her spinal cord. The churning feeling returns, and I turn away quickly. “What was that, kid?” Norm asks, looking up. I wave him off. “Nothing. It was nothing.” I climb aboard my sloop and empty my bits bucket into the bin at the front of my berth. It’s difficult to ignore her piercing gaze even when it isn’t directed towards me, but I manage to ignore it for most of the morning. An elderly woman finds the hand with the manacle bruises and claims it belonged to her captured son, and I sell it to her for ten shillies, even though doing so makes something deep in my chest rear its head and bare its teeth. I manage, somehow, to keep the monster at bay for the morning and into the afternoon. I let it nibble on my lungs for a while, and I’m content to let it do that for as long as it wants. The churning regret in my stomach always drowns in apprehension and apathy after long enough. Tomorrow will be another day—another lunch with Nan and Lod, another haul, another penny for another finger.

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SAMI KHAN Photography | Greenhill School, Addison, TX

Recitation Digital photography 2020 164

Searching Cyanotype print 2020 165

FELIX KILLINGSWORTH Poetry | South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities, Greenville, SC

Wise Woman of Clare i bleed on my friend’s pink sweater when i bust my head on the spider monkey bars in third grade. the teacher from room 315 ushers me into the nurse’s office & sits me down on the cot, white paper pulled over the plastic-wrapped mattress. there’s a jar of sunny-orange turmeric on the counter, sea-glass bottles of evening primrose & tea tree oil. nurse early is pulling mugs & honey out of the cabinet and reaching into the drawer dedicated to the lavender / chamomile / & earl grey tea that biddy early brews with three clockwise & two counter-clockwise stirs of a cherry wood spoon. the students believe her tea has known magic because all the older kids talk about having tea with the wise woman of clare while waiting for their parents to come pick them up & hold them until they feel better, & by the end she has them believing in faeries, or it might be how she reads the tea leaves once i set down my mug, like there was something special about how i drink chamomile. she tuts quietly, smoothing a hand through my matted hair & telling me stories about her mother bringing her to the faerie circle in ireland, about how she always found pink shells, sea-worn & softened by earth, buried inland & she whispered her thanks to the faeries that lingered around hollow trees & circles of white mushrooms for bringing her small lovely things. i can’t remember when my head stops bleeding, but i know that her soft fingertips on my forehead feels distant bonfires in the middle of the woods, & laughing at your friend’s bad joke. when i get home that night, my gash is pulled tight with knotted strands of my hair, & i smiled when i heard the doctor mutter it should not have been possible.

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Protection Spells on my fifteenth birthday, my best friend gives me a spell bottle for protection— rosemary, crystal quartz, cloves, pink salt, a fortune from our favorite chinese restaurant & i know i love them when they use their favorite crystals. everyone used to believe in magic, people nailed upside-down horseshoes above their doors to ward off the devil & the greeks painted eyes on cups to keep evil spirits from slipping down your throat when you drank dry red wine. everyone knows that’s the spirits’ favorite kind. witches burn sage to cleanse homes of evil & now, i am in charge of the fire & even at fifteen my friends don’t trust me to not burn. when i throw a firecracker into the backyard, everyone flinches & demands i give the lighter to someone responsible. no one burns in salem, no children watch wooden beams fall on a charred body in an explosion of sparks. no one says the sparks look like fireflies emerging from a burning house, but the townspeople still flinch at every execution & one mother bursts into tears when they crush giles corey, shielding her daughter’s eyes. after everyone else goes home, my best friend pushes apart the smoldering logs with their shiny maroon doc martens & we jump back from the shower of orange sparks that fizzle out above our heads. i ask them what i need protecting from, & they can’t give me an answer, but they kiss me for the first time on the patio furniture as the fire dies, & there is more magic in that than any spell bottle or horseshoe or smoking bundle of sage because in this moment with them, it feels like no evil spirits are out to get me. the logs pop one more time before becoming charcoal, & they smile at me, pressing the bottle of cloves & beloved things into my palm. 167

ELANE KIM Spoken Word | Homeschool, Walnut Creek, CA

How To Cook Maine Lobster I saw her before he did. lady in white dress, blushing red. mom told her to find a good man so she did what she could and fell headfirst. he was older, wiser & she was lucky she had a choice. at the wedding mom shook the groom’s hand but at home she shook her head & sighed. lady in pink dress carries baby in blue. they shop for knives, pots & seafood. pass by the fish gallery & baby squeals. lady cradles baby & calls him her own. lady is still learning how to call things her own. lady is still learning how to catch the bones as they fall, how to stop the unraveling of a body. lady has learned that there are some things closed doors can’t hide. lady reads instructions for dinner (because the good man & his good child need a good dinner, not like last night when she forgot the roast in the oven, didn’t notice the smoke or the alarms going off. that night lady wiped mashed potatoes from the walls, baby food from the floor & lady was still lucky she had a choice): there is one humane way to kill a lobster. place it headfirst into seasoned water, turn up the heat slowly & it won’t notice the death filling its lungs. lobsters have no vocal chords, so don’t worry. the hissing is just from the water. lady in blue dress, blushing red lobster in 150° water being boiled alive. her third-degree burns are third-world problems. mom asks if she’s happy. lady in blue hesitates, antennae twitching but static follows. she wipes baby’s face & says yes. if the neighbors ask, the screaming was from the water.

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Daughter Tongue Bring me to a city with a million faces that look like mine. When monsoon season comes, streets will fill with rain. Frogs will find a home in my throat. When monsoon season comes, my grandparents will call me by a name I don’t know. From this city I inherit displacement, the skeleton of my mother’s voice. This is home: a roofless mouth, an unwound body. Do you see now, what is lost in translation? Do you see now, that a language dies long before it is buried? That there is only so much you can mourn. Sometimes I long for a language my tongue does not recognize as its mother. Sometimes my tongue feels foreign in its own body. I dream of lives unlived. Here is where I wish I knew how to say, Tell me about this city & its million faces. Tell me how to remember my blood. Here is where my tongue splits. Here is where I croak.

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EMMA KIMMEL

Visual Arts | George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology, Baltimore, MD

Her Death for My Rebirth (detail) Gouache 2020 170

Her Death for My Rebirth Gouache 2020 171

TOVA K L E I N E R Visual Arts | Stanford Online High School, Redwood City, CA

Therapeutic Views Pencil on paper 2020 172

Soft Sculpture Wire armature, stuffing, fabric, thread 2020 173

D I V YA S R I K R I S H N A N Poetry | Acton-Boxborough Regional High School, Acton, MA

A Prayer (or, what a boy asked of the world) & the mother told her son he would never be alone. you have a brother, she said. call on him, and he shall be yours. My brother was born from shadow; every time my eyes flickered to shadow he returned. His stride was twice mine. His eyes were river stones, meaning divine. When we walked— he in my wake, my cut of darkness— the dogs withdrew their heads to let us pass. I asked, once, if he was a god. No more than you. So we walked on. For if my brother were a god surely the sky would split open for him. Surely his light would not break against my mother’s eye. In her veins would run sunsets she could sell for a new farm, or a straw body to make her husband, or a stone. We could coax from it holiness. Like a skin of light from shadow. No more than you. If my brother were a god then I would be, too. And then I would not choose to be soft, my mother’s flesh burden. I would be a god, meaning light, and the skies would break like a wound for me. And all the blood would be rubies.

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Aubade As A Middle Finger Like an astronaut i’m small. I’m tinee. I fit well in these little spaces. I slip thru shallow cuts n leave no blood. Birdies n i get right along. They shiver thru the air, part it like a curtain. Neat. Me, i split the thing like a wound. When i learned 2 fly i was 16. Barely alive. My father the thing taught me heavy hands = love. Pain = how he drives the sin from me. Hell. I’ve always been flighty. So my father hit me. Big deal. grow up, he said w his hands. He wanted new body, new daughter. grow up, meaning no child o’ mine wants this sapphic shit. girls don’t make good husbands. poetry don’t pay the bills. W his hands n a mouthful o’ knives: grow up. So i did. Fucked a girl in my sleep. So many little spaces to fit. grow up; now i’m 70 feet tall. I’m 10000 feet tall. I’m in the mothafuckn stratosphere. I have sex w angels, now, dad. I’m so big nex’ 2 u but i can hide in the notches of their eyeteeth, cupid’s bow, under their tongues. Now i’m so alive it hurts. I eat meteors for lunch. They taste like girls. They taste like the goddamn sun.

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M ICHAE L L AU R ITO Visual Arts | Alexandrer W. Dreyfoos School of the Arts, West Palm Beach, FL

The Landsknecht Collagraph, with collaged textures and intaglio print 2019 176

Using toy binoculars amidst tulips Acrylic paint, matte medium, on wood board 2020 177

W YAT T L AY T O N Spoken Word | Orange County School of the Arts, Santa Ana, CA

Destruction Radioactive happiness kisses my lungs and eats away at my skull. It grabs my stick arms and makes riverbanks out of clay. There is no metaphor for life that is not true. You tell me over breakfast that I am like monster to you, like bull in china shop, like destruction, like the calm before the storm or maybe just the storm inside of the storm. You kiss my forehead at the train station and tell me that you’ll never hurt me. Right before I ride a bullet to the next town over. You tell me you’ll catch up to me some day or another. My stick arms are now wrapped around you and you’re a huge t rex. You say I am destruction but look at yourself. Look at yourself. You are made of stories your father told when you were young. You still remember every one of them. You are made of redwood branches that have kissed my stick arms goodnight millions of times before. You are not god to me, but something else. With less power. With less dreams. With less magic. With more day job. Look at yourself again. You have built up a lifetime of memories that you will now tell your new children, but I will not be there to see it, because you are no longer god to me. You are something else. You are something else with less innocence, less power, less magic, more day job, more destruction-worthy. Dad, you are the bullet, soaring into the station that is my brain, made of kisses and goodnights, and beautiful bloody messes.

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Lovely The grass was dead and harsh on your legs, but beautiful nonetheless. Somehow, You always found dead thingslovely. It was a warm evening. Trees hollow, stripped of their leaves, ready for winter to tear out their hearts. Nothing ever survives the winter. Nothing ever stays that long. What about you, sweet girl? Ma says to nobody, hearing the sound of your voice in the wind, even though it is long gone. Her somber tone could make a grown man weep. What about you? You’ve lasted this long, many winters and moons. Nothing ever stays that long. You’re dying proof of that. Ma wouldn’t bother with saying anything else. You still loved her though, with her sweet perfume still on your cold, damp skin from her embraces every day of your life. And you can hear her calling birds from across the field. You can hear her screeching to grasp a bit of your angel wing, and screaming and desperate, with Pa right next to her. He might go inside, but she never stops. Maybe some things do stay that long.

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JAMES LEE

Play or Script | Glenbrook North High School, Northbrook, IL

Stack of Papers BLACK. Traffic. Footsteps and crunching snow. The howling wind. FADE IN: EXT. APARTMENT COMPLEX - AFTERNOON A lone, red sedan drives down an empty street, wipers clearing away the falling snow. It slowly turns a corner into the parking lot of an apartment building. A moment later, it finds a parking spot. Turning off the signal, a young woman steps out, dressed in a decent coat. AMY. Nineteen years old. She walks inside the building. INT. APARTMENT COMPLEX - CONTINUOUS FLOOR 4 Footsteps echo across the stairwell as Amy reaches the fourth floor. She walks down the long, empty hallway, looking for a certain room. Eventually, she finds it. 474. After a moment of hesitation, she knocks on the door - no response. She waits a second before knocking on it again, more firmly this time. Hello? Craig?

AMY

Muffled footsteps approach the door from the other side. A woman’s voice is heard; Who is this?

WOMAN (O.S.)

Amy leans her ear towards the door.

Silence.

AMY Oh - hi, uh... my name’s Amy, is Craig Dawson in here?

The door clicks open, revealing a casually dressed middle-aged woman, holding a group of papers with notes scrawled on them. Amy hesitates to say anything, a somewhat confused expression on her face; Mrs. Dawson?

AMY

Beat. MRS. DAWSON (early 50s) briefly glances down at the notes in her hand, then back up at Amy;

Amy steps inside...

MRS. DAWSON (nodding) ... Yeah. I know you. Come inside.

ROOM 474

... and closes the door behind her. She silently looks around the room - it’s somewhat minimalistic. There’s a dining table and two chairs - a purse and keys on the floor by one of them - right at the center. To the left is a wooden drawer chest with a small photo frame and a phone charger. To the right is the kitchen. The bedroom is found towards the back, its door left ajar. Meanwhile, Mrs. Dawson sets down the papers she’s holding on the dining table. MRS. DAWSON (CONT’D) You’re Craig’s girlfriend, right?

AMY Yeah. I think Craig introduced me to you a few months ago. 180

MRS. DAWSON (slowly nodding) Yeah, probably. It’s been a while.

Long, awkward pause. Mrs. Dawson silently remains by the table, looking down at the floor. Amy’s confused look from earlier still remains; AMY I’m sorry, do you mind if I... ask you something? Really quickly?

Beat. Amy hesitates for a second.

Her sentence trails off.

Hm?

MRS. DAWSON

AMY (cautiously) Craig told me a while ago that you were in the hospital, he - he said you were really sick there. Is everything...? MRS. DAWSON (dryly) Oh. That. Yeah, that was - it’s gotten a lot better. Don’t worry about that.

Amy nods, then awkwardly glances around the room again. Mrs. Dawson takes a seat at one of the chairs, almost observing Amy. MRS. DAWSON (CONT’D) Do you mind if we sit down for a moment? Just so we can... maybe talk.

Amy turns to face her. Mrs. Dawson forces a smile. ... Sure.

AMY

Hesitantly, she walks over and sits down in front of Mrs. Dawson. The two of them exchange glances for a moment. MRS. DAWSON So. Craig sent you a message? That’s why you’re here? Yeah. He did. What’d he say?

AMY

MRS. DAWSON

Amy pulls out her phone and attempts to turn it on, but fails - the battery’s dead. With a puzzled glance and a sharp sigh; AMY It was - he just told me to come here, that I’d... find something. That was it. (beat) Is there a charger around here? My phone’s... MRS. DAWSON There’s one at the drawer. Over there.

As Amy gets up and walks towards the drawer chest:

MRS. DAWSON (O.S.) (CONT’D) (sotto) ... He’s not here. Of course he’s not here.

Amy glances at Mrs. Dawson, then plugs her phone into the charger. She soon notices the small photo frame next to the charger and picks it up - it’s a picture of her. MRS. DAWSON (O.S.) (CONT’D) He’s never liked letting go of things...

She sets it down, then sits back in front of Mrs. Dawson, who’s still rambling to herself while staring at the notes on the table. MRS. DAWSON (CONT’D) ... now he’s just wandering around. Playing pretend.

Mrs. Dawson’s sentence trails off. She moves her gaze back on Amy, this time in a much colder manner. Noticing this yet again, Amy’s expression darkens. AMY Do you need something, Mrs. Dawson?

Very long pause. Mrs. Dawson seems lost in memory.

MRS. DAWSON Has Craig told you how his father died yet?

Beat. Amy leans back a bit, disturbed by the question.

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Even so, Amy still hesitates.

MRS. DAWSON (CONT’D) If he’s told you, I mean, you can say it. It’s been a while, anyway... AMY He told me it was... in a car accident.

EXT. STREETS - DUSK, PAST A red sedan has been t-boned by a pickup truck in an intersection. Fresh snow covers the roads.

Inside the red sedan is a young man in the driver’s seat, wailing his head off at the lifeless silhouette of someone crushed in the passenger’s seat. INT. APARTMENT COMPLEX, ROOM 474 - CONTINUOUS, PRESENT Pause. Mrs. Dawson sighs shakily, clearly distressed. That’s right.

MRS. DAWSON

(beat) He died a few hours after that crash.

Another beat. Amy briefly glances downward.

AMY I’m so sorry. That must have been horrible.

Mrs. Dawson doesn’t respond for a second.

MRS. DAWSON (slowly) Craig and I, we didn’t... have anyone else but each other after that. And, you know, he’s probably said this before, but - I wasn’t really the best to him. Before it all happened. (beat, then sotto;)

At least I tried. Her solemn expression slowly morphs into something bitter.

Cold silence.

MRS. DAWSON (CONT’D) Then he met you. And you took him from me.

... Excuse me?

Amy struggles to respond.

You heard me.

AMY MRS. DAWSON

AMY Mrs. Dawson, you’re misunderstanding something, I haven’t... seen Craig for weeks now, I’m trying to look for him, too.

Beat. Mrs. Dawson closes her eyes and sighs, frustrated. She leans in slightly and changes the subject; MRS. DAWSON You’ve seen him write... things a lot, haven’t you?

Amy hesitantly nods again, trying to look beyond the question. She glances at the notes on the table; Sometimes. Yeah.

AMY

MRS. DAWSON He ever tell you what he was writing about?

For a moment, Amy tries to recall something.

AMY No, actually, he... he’d just come up to me sometimes, show me what he wrote. He had a few stories about some childhood friends. Davis and Troy - I think those were their names. And he had a couple nice ones about his father, too. Who else? 182

MRS. DAWSON

AMY ... I don’t know. I don’t think he wrote about anyone else.

(beat, scoffs) I asked him a few times if he’d ever write something about me. He didn’t really say much to that, but, you know - maybe someday...

Amy’s sentence trails off. Mrs. Dawson slowly pushes the pile of notes on the table closer to her. MRS. DAWSON You won’t have to worry about that anymore.

Confused, Amy glances at Mrs. Dawson, then down at the papers. She picks up some of them and starts reading, starting on a paragraph about a short walk on campus... EXT. CAMPUS - NIGHT, PAST CRAIG (early 20s) is seen here for the first time, walking with Amy down a dimly lamp-lit sidewalk, deep in conversation. The sidewalk is littered with fallen leaves. INT. DRIVE-IN THEATER - EVENING, PAST Sitting inside of the red sedan, Craig and Amy both stare up in awe at a gigantic screen. They’re in the midst of a crowd of parked cars, watching an old, black-and-white animated feature with lots of slapstick comedy. INT. SMALL RESTAURANT - MORNING, PAST Here, the two of them are eating breakfast - Craig with pancakes and syrup, and Amy with eggs, toast, and bacon. It’s snowing outside; Craig stares out the window. INT. APARTMENT COMPLEX, ROOM 474 - CONTINUOUS, PRESENT Amy sets the papers down, a slight smile on her face. She looks back up at Mrs. Dawson... who’s sternly glaring at her, arms folded. MRS. DAWSON You just don’t get what I’m trying to say, do you?

Pause. What little remains of Amy’s smile fades.

AMY I’m sorry, I didn’t know that... he had all this. I mean, he’s written about other people before-MRS. DAWSON When he at least talked to me.

AMY Mrs. Dawson, even if that’s true, I just don’t - I don’t know what you want from me here.

Pause. Mrs. Dawson tightly grabs the papers about Amy on the table for a moment, glaring down at them;

MRS. DAWSON (bitterly, softly) You know, I - it was one thing when he stopped talking to me, but... he knew I was in the hospital. He knew. And he still didn’t visit me. (pause, sets papers down) At least now I know why. He just had someone else on his mind. MRS. DAWSON (CONT’D)

As if it wasn’t enough that you made him-- AMY

(unnerved)

AMY

Wait, did he not...?! I’ve talked to--

(firmly) Mrs. Dawson, please, just listen to me. I don’t--

Amy’s sentence trails off. She stammers a bit and softens her tone, trying to backtrack; AMY (CONT’D) I - I’m sorry. I’m just - I’m trying to find him, like, actually find him. He hasn’t been...

Cold, drawn-out silence. Amy’s sentence trails off. She looks down and away from Mrs. Dawson. INT. SMALL RESTAURANT - MORNING, PAST Amy sits across from Craig again in the same breakfast restaurant from the earlier montage.

183

Craig is looking through his wallet. The two plates on the table have been replaced by two checks. Awkward silence.

AMY What was that phone call about? Last night? (looking up) ...Hm?

CRAIG

Craig puts his wallet back in his pocket.

His expression slowly drops.

AMY You were up at, like, three in the morning last night. Calling someone.

CRAIG (tiredly) Oh. That. Yeah, that was - someone called about Mom again last night. She’s not really... getting any better.

Amy glances downward, unable to respond. Craig sighs as he rubs his forehead - his blank gaze is fixed on the checks. AMY You didn’t visit her yet, right? Not yet. No.

CRAIG

AMY ... Are you going to?

Craig doesn’t respond for a moment.

CRAIG I don’t know. Maybe if it gets any worse, then-(beat, then sotto;) God, that’s such a... horrible thing to say.

Longer pause. Amy stares worriedly at Craig. He rubs his forehead, still not looking up at her. CRAIG (CONT’D) (rubbing his forehead) She wasn’t the best to me. Before my dad passed away. Then she just - I don’t know, she just turned around. All of a sudden. AMY (cautiously) Well, that shouldn’t stop you from... seeing her at all. (beat) I mean, if it helps, I’ll come with you.

Craig takes this in for a long moment, then nods. Maybe. Yeah.

CRAIG

(beat) C’mon. Let’s go.

The two of them stand up and leave the restaurant, bringing everything they need with them. A moment later, the red sedan leaves the parking lot. INT. APARTMENT COMPLEX, ROOM 474 - CONTINUOUS, PRESENT For a moment, neither Mrs. Dawson nor Amy say a single word to each other. Amy doesn’t make any sort of eye contact with Mrs. Dawson. AMY He hasn’t been there for... a while now. Ever since you were in the hospital.

(beat) I tried talking about it. About how he was just... making things harder. And, I mean, he apologized - he always does, every time I tell him this, but - it hasn’t fixed anything. (beat, then sotto;) He didn’t go to the hospital. Of course he didn’t...

Pause. Amy bitterly stares outward. Mrs. Dawson slowly shakes her head, almost in denial.

184

MRS. DAWSON (changing the subject) You... mentioned someone just now. Davis and Troy. You said Craig wrote about them or something.

Beat. She’s waiting for a response. Amy slowly nods, still not looking at her. Yeah. I did.

AMY

For a moment, Mrs. Dawson seems lost in memory yet again. MRS. DAWSON (blankly) Yeah. I remember what happened to them. There was this housefire. A while ago. Their parents couldn’t get to them in time, they were... seven years old, I think. (beat, shaking her head) I can’t get to Craig anymore. Even you don’t know where he is...

As she says that, Mrs. Dawson slowly stands up, grabbing her purse and keys on the floor. She chokes up a bit-MRS. DAWSON (CONT’D) I keep seeing him - standing here...

She steps out of the apartment, slamming the door shut behind her. Amy closes her eyes and sighs. Cold silence. She soon picks up Craig’s notes about her, still left on the dining table; after a moment, she sets them back down, a strange look on her face. Something’s off. Off the corner of her eye, she sees the bedroom door still left ajar and gets up, hesitantly walking inside. In front of her is the wooden desk... but to the left of her is the bed itself, with several stacks of torn-out notebook paper placed on top of it. Amy’s eyes widen out of complete surprise. Her charging phone then vibrates in the distance. She goes to the drawer chest, unplugs the phone, and opens a text; Craig: “Look inside my desk’s drawer.” Amy, getting more nervous, types out: Amy: “where ARE you right now?!” For a while, no response - not even a typing indicator. After sending a few more brief messages to no avail, Amy gives in; she goes back to the desk and opens its drawer. There’s a smaller stack of papers inside. Amy picks it up, reading a sticky note placed right on top that reads, “For Amy.” She takes it off. She starts reading what’s underneath. HARD TO BLACK. INT. LIBRARY - AFTERNOON Craig sits at a desk in a private study room. He looks exhausted, frazzled. He’s got a notebook in front of him with writing scrawled on the pages, and a pen he’s twirling in his hand. He flips back and forth a few pages, re-reading over some of his work... where Amy’s entire conversation with Mrs. Dawson has been written down. After a moment of biting the end of his pen, Craig pulls out a sticky note from inside the notebook’s front cover, writing “For Amy.” on it. Turning over to an empty page, he sticks the note on top, takes a deep breath, and starts writing something new. CRAIG (V.O.) I don’t know when I started writing about the people in my life. INT. HOSPITAL - NIGHT, PAST A younger Craig - about thirteen years old - sits by the window of a hospital room with Mrs. Dawson. He stares, tears welling up, at the bed in front of him... ... where his horrifically wounded father lies, hooked up to dozens of machines, an arm and a leg in casts. Mrs. Dawson, noticing Craig getting emotional, tries to comfort him, but soon starts crying herself. INT. DAWSON HOUSE, BEDROOM - NIGHT, DISTANT PAST An even younger Craig, looking to be about seven years old this time, slowly opens his eyes in bed. A bright orange light flickers on the ceiling from outside, accompanied by flashing red and blue, all from behind the curtains of a nearby window. Craig gets up. He opens the curtains, eyes squinting...

... revealing the sight of a house in the distance that’s completely engulfed in flames. A group of fire trucks, ambulances, and police have arrived at the scene. 185

CRAIG (V.O.) I’ve been writing memories about my dad, my friends... to keep them alive, almost.

The worry in his eyes makes it clear how disturbed he is. His father soon walks in the room, turns Craig’s gaze away from the window, and guides him outside. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) That’s all I really know. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. INT. LIBRARY - CONTINUOUS, PRESENT Craig stops writing for a second. His pen stops moving, his hand shaking just slightly. He sets it down for a moment. Breathes deeply. CRAIG (V.O.) Nothing about it’s ever been easy.

After blankly staring down at his notebook for a moment, he picks up his pen again and starts a new paragraph. EXT. STREETS - DUSK, PAST Erratic, coarse tire tracks mark the fresh snow on the road, with shattered headlight glass - and even a part of a car bumper - all scattered across the ground. CRAIG (V.O.) There’s no point in not saying this anymore.

Gradually, we see what’s happened...

A red sedan has been t-boned by a pickup truck in an intersection. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) You died the same way my father did.

The surrounding traffic slowly makes their way around the scene of the accident. Sirens grow louder in the distance. The driver of the pickup truck steps out of his vehicle, phone in hand, limping and repeatedly cursing himself. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) You told me earlier that day that I should have visited my mother in the hospital.

Inside the red sedan is Craig in the driver’s seat, wailing his head off at the lifeless silhouette of someone crushed in the passenger’s seat - Amy. Red and blue lights flash in the distance. An ambulance and a handful of police cars are approaching. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) I don’t know how to live with the fact that I didn’t listen to you. INT. DAWSON HOUSE - EVENING, DISTANT PAST Craig, back to being about ten years old here, sits with his mother at the dining table, eating dinner in silence. CRAIG (V.O.) I always told myself her illness wasn’t that bad. That she had other people to go to.

After a tense, quiet moment, Craig tries to get his mother’s attention, clearing his throat softly.

She trains her cold, observant glare directly on him. Craig almost seems to shrink in his seat. He stays quiet. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) ... That’s what it looked like, at least. INT. CITY HOSPITAL - NIGHT, PAST Craig - now back in his early 20s - sits by the window of a hospital room. He stares, tears welling up, at the bed in front of him... ... where a horrifically wounded Amy lies, hooked up to several machines, an arm and a leg in casts. He starts crying.

CRAIG (V.O.) By the time you were gone, though, it didn’t matter.

INT. APARTMENT COMPLEX, ROOM 474 - EVENING, PAST Craig, sitting at the desk in his bedroom, writes in his notebook, showing no hint of stopping. The small framed photo of Amy is right by him on the desk. CRAIG (V.O.) I wrote about you. I couldn’t do anything else. 186

He finishes writing on one of the pages, then tears it out right away, putting it down on top of a growing stack of papers. As he keeps writing; My mom...

CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D)

(beat) ... passed away in the hospital not too long after that. EXT. CEMETERY - DUSK, PAST Craig stands alone in front of a gravestone with a blank, numb stare, wearing a decent suit and holding a small bouquet of white lilies. CRAIG (V.O.) No one told me if anyone visited her.

On the headstone he’s looking at is the name, “Mary Dawson.” She’s been buried right next to “Peter Dawson’s grave. INT. LIBRARY - CONTINUOUS, PRESENT Craig stops writing. He sets the pen down again and buries his face in his hands, his breathing getting heavier. He’s panicking. CRAIG (V.O.) And I don’t want to know if anyone did.

Long, cold pause. He breathes deeply again, calms down, and after a moment, hesitantly picks his pen back up. He flips back a few pages and stops on one - the page where Amy monologues about Craig growing distant from her. With a painful sigh, he starts reminiscing again... INT. CAFE - DAY, DISTANT PAST Further back in the past, Craig sits alone at a small table with a cup of coffee, scrolling through his phone. CRAIG (V.O.) It never felt right from the beginning. Just... not seeing her at all.

He’s been looking through a text conversation with someone else, reading through messages from several days ago about his mother’s hospitalization. After some time of this, a text message arrives from Amy; Amy: where are you right now? Pause. Craig stares down at his phone for a moment, a flash of irritation crossing his face. He shakes his head, biting his lip, catching himself. He opens the conversation with Amy and hesitantly types out; Craig: i’ll be back soon ... then puts his phone back in his pocket. INT. APARTMENT COMPLEX, ROOM 474 - MORNING, DISTANT PAST Craig stares out in front of him at the dining table - all the while, Amy sits across from him, talking to him sternly. CRAIG (V.O.) And I let that seep into how I talked to you.

As Amy stops talking, she stares unmovingly at Craig. He briefly glances back up at her. LATER Craig finds himself sitting alone at the dining table, a fresh mug of tea in hand. Amy’s left the room. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) At some point, though, I wanted to listen to you again.

He pulls out his phone, about to scroll through it yet again... but hesitates. He turns it off and sets it back down. Craig stares emptily again, suddenly lost in thought. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) And that’s when you told me to visit her. INT. LIBRARY - CONTINUOUS, PRESENT Pause. Craig’s pen stops as he writes down the words, “And then” on that same paragraph. After a brief pause, he scratches it out. He starts a new paragraph and keeps writing.

187

INT. GROUP THERAPY SESSION - NIGHT, PAST Craig sits at a large group therapy circle, indistinctly talking on end, constantly on the verge of breaking down. He has the whole group’s undivided attention. CRAIG (V.O.) I still don’t think I’ve come back from this. INT. APARTMENT ROOM, ROOM 474 - DAY, PAST Craig paces around the room, in the middle of a phone call with someone, nodding and chuckling occasionally. His eyes, however, are bloodshot; he sniffs just slightly. CRAIG (V.O.) I’ve found more people near me to talk to, at least.

As he slowly turns around, the inside of his bedroom catches his eye. He stops dead in his tracks, staring at the notebooks and papers strewn all over his desk. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) And I’ve tried to stop reminding myself of what I’ve done.

He walks up to his bedroom and firmly shuts the door. INT. LIBRARY - CONTINUOUS, PRESENT

After a quiet moment, Craig finishes writing and sets his pen down. He sighs deeply - something’s off. CRAIG (V.O.) But I keep thinking about if you and my mom had ever met again. If you were still...

He turns to the page in the notebook with the sentence that’s trailed off from the above voiceover, then scratches the sentence out entirely. He closes the notebook, puts the pen in his pocket, and takes all of his things with him as he leaves the room. INT. SUV - MOMENTS LATER Craig drives down a long road - it’s still snowing outside. The radio is playing somewhat loud music, and after a moment of listening to it, he turns it off. CRAIG (V.O.) I keep thinking about what you would have said about me. EXT. APARTMENT COMPLEX - CONTINUOUS A lone, grey SUV drives down an empty street, wipers clearing away the falling snow. It slowly turns a corner into the parking lot of an apartment building. CRAIG (V.O.) About the things I did to you.

A moment later, the SUV finds a suitable parking spot. Turning off the signal, Craig steps out of the car and walks inside the building. INT. APARTMENT COMPLEX- CONTINUOUS FLOOR 4 Footsteps echo across the stairwell as Craig reaches the fourth floor. He finds room 474 and unlocks the door, closing it behind him as he steps inside.

ROOM 474

CRAIG (V.O.) I’ve never really liked the idea of what could have been.

Heading straight for the bedroom, Craig tosses his notebook on the wooden desk. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) I’ve always written about memories, but... lately, it hasn’t fixed anything.

He tears out two stacks of paper, putting the letter to Amy with the sticky note on it inside the desk drawer. Craig then turns to his bed, looking solemnly at all of the other piles of notes he’s placed on top. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) I can’t ask your forgiveness just by remembering you.

After a moment, he takes the second stack of papers - the one with Amy and Mrs. Dawson - and brings it with him. He sits down at the dining table, sifting through the pages, reading over them again. CRAIG (V.O.) (CONT’D) But maybe I can try with this. 188

As he keeps reading, we slowly turn to the front door. Someone knocks on it from the outside. No response. They wait a second before knocking on it again, more firmly this time. Hello? Craig?

AMY (O.S.)

Mrs. Dawson emerges from Craig’s bedroom, a group of papers in hand, approaching the door. Who is this?

Silence.

MRS. DAWSON

AMY (O.S.) Oh - hi, uh... my name’s Amy, is Craig Dawson in here?

FADE OUT.

189

RYLEIGH LEON Photography | Lawrence High School, Lawrence, KS

The Deadly Game Digital photography 2019 190

Drowning in Poisonous Beauty Digital photography 2019 191

CO R I N N E L EO N G Poetry | Windward School, Los Angeles, CA

Letter Anything I speak, I know to speak a second time: My brother is dying. My brother is dying. You are not my sister tearing through an Italian restaurant, blistering with what I have given her no choice but to know. Nor are you my father, head sheathed in his own hands, human obit for a home where children never start reaching for knives to turn upon themselves. Thirty years ago, my parents met in this red -checkered restaurant where mounted televisions tremble with love stories birthed before them. Today, Harold plucks a banjo that is no longer Maude over the cliff-fallen carcass of a hearse that is no longer Maude. Today, my brother lies stretchered downtown like a trampled scarab. His stomach petaled and sagging with excess diazepam. My father pretends I can keep his secrets: I’ve tried too hard. What other possible ending. You are pale and punched ripe with holes, pastiche of my childhood walls, so I pack you full of sins, smear you mute with plaster. I should tell you— last winter I invited death piously inside of me. Brother, I confess: when you stood at the top of the stairs and told me you wanted to die, I felt the sting of theft.

192

L.A. Bildungsroman August after high school and my loss carves a grave of itself in the burning city. Grief has no hometown but I see it in Los Angeles, the slow death of summer. Tell me—was it the boy or the swarm of tall palms who turned me into parking lot, Motel 6, thing to pass through before morning? In the five o’clock hour I cloak with denim and learn quickly my tender obsolescence. Knees locked in and out of the seaside bedroom. At eighteen my uses briefly multiply. Among angels I am component parts. A body divided beneath the orange grove. I, partway woman, fossil of split fruit. A head full of ribbons, my wounds sighing into the mouths of other wounds. Foolish to think the parched earth could teach me a love that flows freely. My loss a small pool I flood desperate with water. Speeding north up the coast, the air salts with mist. One thousand desert hands unhold me.

193

CAMILLE LEVY

Visual Arts | Ramón C. Cortines School of Visual and Performing Arts, Los Angeles, CA

Using toy binoculars amidst tulips Acrylic paint, matte medium, on wood board 2020 194

Red Shovel Acrylic paint, matte medium, on wood board 2020 195

JUSTIN LI

Creative Nonfiction | The Pingry School, Basking Ridge, NJ

The River Stories of a Ghost I had always thought that there were no ghosts in my family, until I saw her face looking back at me in a black and white family portrait. I could identify everyone in the frame— Grandma and all three of her younger sisters, my great-grandmother and great-grandfather—but not the teenage girl on the far right, whose face was blanched by unfortunate lighting. “This is her,” Grandma said in Sichuan dialect. “She is my oldest sister, Yu Ying.” She didn’t have the same round face as Grandma and her other sisters; her face was long and her pointy chin joined an angular jawline. Though her other facial features were slightly blurred, her upper lip was unmistakably asymmetrical. Grandma told me that she’d been born with a cleft palate that formed a gap from her upper lip to her nostrils which rural doctors, who were always inexperienced and underpaid, did a particularly poor job at sealing. In public, she was a quiet girl. When she did talk, her speech was difficult to understand, escaping through her mouth as if she didn’t have full control of her breath. As I examined the picture, she seemed like a stranger—both to me, and to those in the frame with her. * * *

Grandma told me that in elementary school, the boys who sat in the adjacent desks would intentionally bump their elbows into her shoulders as they sat down. “Scarface,” they’d call her. She never said anything back, fearful that they’d begin teasing her about the way she talked. At home, my great grandmother, whose feet were small from being bound and whose marriage had been arranged, upheld a traditional attitude towards her eldest daughter’s facial disfiguration. While she sent her other girls off to the local high school, she believed that there was little use in continuing to educate Yu Ying, who in her eyes only attracted negative attention from their neighbors, so she told her that “Nothing is impossible for a girl with a nice-looking face” and the message was clear to Yu Ying, who didn’t protest when her mother sent her off to make a living for herself. She found work in Pu Jiang grinding stones. It was a mindless job that required no skill and whose pay reflected this fact; nonetheless, she was only a sixteen-year-old girl with a cleft palate, and it was a job. There, in the sparsely inhabited countryside, she rolled her overalls up her knees and waded in and out of the river, emptying bamboo baskets heavy with large, round stones when she’d returned to the shore each time. When the pile had gotten high enough, she took a hammer to each rock and crushed it into gravel, one by one, until her wrists were sore. Some stones cracked under the impact of a single strike. Others took more time and more strength to break open. It was, as Grandma put it, a man’s job. Each day, she and the other workers lined up with bags of crushed river stones slung over their shoulders, waiting for their work to be weighed by a foreman. For every 3,000 kilograms, they received two yuan, just enough for three meals a day with a little left over. When she returned from Pu Jiang, she did not look like her other sisters. Her hands were cut and calloused, her hair was ungroomed, and her work attire looked peculiar next to their neat school uniforms. She’d reach her hands into her bag and unwrap man tou which she’d bought with the money she’d made, treats that had lost their moisture after being carried for so long. 196

Still, Grandma recalled that they tasted like heaven in comparison to the porridge and wild herbs they could only afford to eat at home. Grandma was always moved by her sister’s generosity, but the gratitude she expressed to her never exceeded one “Thank you.” What Grandma remembered looking forward to most about Yu Ying’s visits were the stories she’d tell her and her sisters. She always told them from the edge of a bed in the small room they shared. The other girls, sitting beside her or lying on their backs on the other bed, listened to Yu Ying speak of the men at Pu Jiang who had become her suitors. One of them had the largest water canteen and was so tall and strong that he could carry a thousand kilograms of rocks from the river each day. Another was the most gifted mahjong player in the province and would buy her peanut candies with the money he won. Even the quarry owner’s son, who would someday be rich after his father bequeathed to him all the quarries in the region, pursued her relentlessly. According to Yu Ying, they were all flawless and handsome, comparable to Sun Daolin, a movie star that all Chinese girls adored. “How did these men tell you they loved you?” Grandma would ask. Yu Ying replied that they promised to one day build her a river house where she’d fish off of her back deck or a stone mansion atop the tall mountains overlooking the quarries, or, if she preferred, a city apartment where she could spend her time shopping for new clothes and eating mung bean cakes with the other housewives. When they asked her why such exceptional men would fancy a poor girl with a scar on her lip, Yu Ying responded that she’d met the river god He Bo, who owned all of the beauty of the world, and she’d made a sacrifice in exchange for his blessing. They asked her what she could have sacrificed in return for such a priceless gift, and if she could introduce He Bo to them, but she maintained that her sacrifice and his location were secrets that she could not disclose. Sitting in their makeshift beds, Yu Ying’s younger sisters were mesmerized and hopeful that they too would find men somewhere who would love them as Yu Ying did. Each time Yu Ying returned to Pu Jiang to work, they believed that they might never see her again, that she’d marry one of these men and live a charmed life, never to return home. However, she continued to come home. One of these days, Yu Ying’s mother had plans for her, forcing her to fix her hair and put on a qipao before bringing her to the Hu family house down the street, a windowless home made of dirt and grey brick. There, Yu Ying stood face-to-face with a short man who was neither ugly nor handsome, devoid of any remarkable physical characteristics. He was not strong, nor talented, nor rich. Grandma had described him to me as homely, yet Yu Ying was to marry the man and live with him at the start of next month. Yu Ying’s mother told her that she’d been very lucky to find a man who would take her to be his wife and that she should be thankful for the opportunity, so Yu Ying did not object when the man’s family decided to move to the Zhejiang countryside and take her with them. As her visits became less frequent and eventually non-existent, so did the stories she told her sisters about her suitors, river gods, and love. At their farm in the countryside, Yu Ying’s ostracization continued. Her husband’s family was as big as her own, and his siblings made no attempt to welcome her into their household. They’d leave her to do a disproportionate share of the tilling, planting, and harvesting required on the farm. She spent most of her day in the fields, and her husband often hit her when she returned to the house, sometimes because she’d

forgotten to do one of her chores, and other times simply because he was in the mood to do so. He was a short-tempered man. Grandma told me that she couldn’t give me many more details of her sister’s life after this point. She remembers hearing from her when her husband broke his leg in a car accident and she needed help to pay his medical bills. A little after that, she learned of the birth of her sister’s first child, and the death of her husband, but the space in between the events is unclear to her. Grandma couldn’t remember the last time they talked. She told me that she thinks of the girl in Yu Ying’s stories more than she thinks of the distant woman who lives in the Zhejiang countryside. * * *

She turns in my direction and I can’t tell if our gazes meet for a moment or if she is just looking behind me at our server. While it’s clear to me now that the woman sitting across the table is no less tangible than my relatives sitting next to her, she is at the same time a ghost, the remains of a young hopeful girl who took breaths in worlds composed of suitors, river gods, and love. As much as I would like to know her in the same way I know my other relatives, I know that at this point, she won’t be able to tell me her story. Out of respect, I don’t ask. As I watch the man tou between my chopsticks leave a trail of steam from the turntable to my plate, I think about how much she remembers, if the river god’s blessing still lingers. I’m sure she won’t mind if I tell her stories for her.

My mom books the private room with the biggest table the restaurant has for the special reunion. Still, when we get there, we have to squeeze extra chairs in between the ones already at the table and press our elbows to our torsos when we pick up our bowls and eat. There is a flurry of hands reaching towards dishes on the turntable. One of my cousins with their eyes set on the shi zi tou meatballs rotates the table without seeing that an uncle hasn’t finished getting his own food, and spins it back when he realizes what he’s done. The four sisters sit on the opposite side of the table and speak amongst each other, though the clicking of utensils and the sub-conversations in between them and me make it impossible to hear what they’re talking about. It’s obvious, nonetheless, that my grandma and two younger great aunts, both of whom I know well from annual visits to Chengdu and who traveled to America to guide my mother when I’d just been born, have trouble finding conversation with their oldest sister. They try their best to include her in their discussion, as a group of friends might try to include a student who is sitting alone in a cafeteria. I try not to stare at my great aunt’s face for too long at a time. The scar above her lip is as noticeable as it had been in the family portrait my grandma had shown me, but her spine has become just as bowed as her sisters’. She is the only one of the four who hasn’t tried to hide the age with black hair dye, so her naturally wavy hair is a uniform white. It’s difficult for me to imagine a woman of her frame on the riverbank hammering away at stones for hours at a time, or in the fields of a Zhejiang farm. Her clothing consists of shades of dark green and looks especially monotone next to the outfits of her sisters, which are subtly embellished with jewelry and the occasional brand name. It’s obvious that their lifestyles have diverged; she wears evidence of the sun on the skin on her face, which looks thin and wraps closely around her cheekbones. I don’t see her open her mouth to speak often. She sits and listens to her sisters, adding an occasional comment, apparently no longer the storyteller she’d once been. My younger cousin leans back in his chair and falls over, laughing. His mother picks him and his chair up and scolds him quietly in Sichuanese, “Ben! Sit upright, no elbows on the table, and be respectful. You have elders here.” To me, my great aunt doesn’t look like a woman blessed by the river god. I feel the urge to cross the room and ask her questions about her life, but she seems so far away, over all the dishes on the table, and I’m not sure what I would ask in the first place. I realize that I am distant enough on our family’s pedigree that she likely isn’t aware that I exist at all, so I continue shoving in mouthfuls of tofu and dan dan noodles, sneaking occasional glances up at her, imagining my own stories about the woman. I fill in the gaps in Grandma’s version of her sister’s life with more obstacles she’s had to overcome and made-up worlds which she might have wished she’d lived in. I picture the reality of it all—the tending to sick cattle, the boots encased by hardened mud, the smell of the earth, the summers, the winters, the mosquito bites which always accompany the humidity, the collapse at the end of a day of work. I picture the life which she dreamed of when she was a young girl, too—a life without her scar, a life without her lisp, a life with men who loved her and whom she loved, and most of all a life whose path was determined by her own choices. I picture her at her house on the river, scrubbing plates on the edge of her deck, waiting for her husband to bring home gifts of fish. He would be someone loving, not cruel, and would hold her and listen earnestly as she spoke about her day, her desires, and anything else she wished to say. 197

KYRA LI

Creative Nonfiction | The Pingry School, Basking Ridge, NJ

Birthday Ring It was the first time I’d ever been to a party in a church. When I got there, hardly anyone had arrived, and I already felt like pulling out my phone and playing Candy Crush. The building looked like a Mediterranean style mansion with hardwood floors and stained glass windows. It sat on a treeless road in Maplewood, New Jersey, a middleclass suburb of New York City. Inside, there were tables around the perimeter of the room set with white daisies in small vases and piles of plastic plates. I placed my gift on the stage where the DJ stood over his gear. I didn’t know what to get Ruby, so I gave her money in a card. Hanging around the tables greeting people, she was wearing a pink princess gown and a tiara, but she didn’t seem like the kind of girl to wear a princess dress. I didn’t know Ruby that well, but I had been going to school with her for a while. A chatty girl, she had friends in all different grades. She didn’t live in a big mansion like a lot of the other kids in my private school. She lived in a middle-class, New Jersey house like mine: four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a basement, the typical flowerpot mailbox on the curb. My school experience with Ruby was limited to the time she once borrowed a dollar for Cheetos and paid me back 81 cents. I also worked with her over the summer as a counselor at a summer camp by Lake Miller. Her voice was loud like a lawnmower, but she was good with the kids. She often told them stuff like, “Be yourself and respect others!” I imagine she invited me because she knew me from camp. I also think she kind of had a crush on me. Once, in the locker room at school, while I was tying my shoes, she asked me, “Hey, Lily. Do you want to hang out sometime?” I said sure, but we never did. While we waited for more people to show up, the partygoers mingled. I spoke to my friends and some kids I camp-counseled with. At some point, after everyone arrived, people started dancing to “Feel So Close” by Calvin Harris—just bodies jumping up and down inside a church building. Jessica, a girl from my dance team, was dancing—flailing her arms around and jumping as if she were in her own bedroom. Like the FBI, the adults stood in the corner watching us, and the church soon became full of disparate crowds: some boys from the basketball team, all different grades, and even people from outside the school. This party was nothing like my fantasy party, which would consist of only my closest friends. I imagined we would be outside in my backyard watching a movie on my deck using our small screen and projector. Afterwards, we’d sit around the fire pit, roast marshmallows, have s’mores, and talk about the cute boys in our grade. The sun was going down, and the church room got darker and hotter. At that point, I thought I needed to get some fresh air. Breathing in people’s body heat was not my favorite thing. Several of us escaped to the bathroom where there was a lounge with some chairs. My friend Alisha elbowed me. “Did you see Jessica dancing with Josh?” “Yeah.” Ruby came in and sat down. The frilly skirt of her gown was so poofy it took up the majority of the room. “What’s up, Lily?” Ruby asked me. “We were talking about Jessica dancing with Josh,” I answered. “Yeah, I saw that. It’s interesting.” Alisha asked, “Why’d you invite them?” 198

“Good question! I don’t know,” Ruby said. “I like all people! Anyways, c’mon, we’re gonna eat cake.” The caterer rolled out the three-tiered cake on a cart. It had big number 1 and number 6 candles on top. Chocolate with strawberry buttercream frosting. Completely out of tune, we sang “Happy Birthday.” But before I could grab a piece, Ruby’s dad came out in a dark blue suit with a microphone in his hand. He looked overly dressed compared to everyone else, like a member of a wedding party. He pulled Ruby to a chair in the middle of the room and asked her to sit down. The rest of us stood on either side of the dance floor. I thought he was going to sing her a song, something really dorky like, “You are my Sunshine.” Instead, he said, “Ruby, you’re getting so old. I can’t believe you’re already sixteen. When you were little, you used to draw parts of bodies—faces, necks, arms, legs—and you would cut them out and attach them to another piece of paper, like your own artistic collage. I think it was your way of creating yourself. You know, even though you’re older, you’re still my baby. But I know you’re gonna grow up someday and help a lot of people. You’ll marry a very lucky man. He’ll be so blessed because you’ll make a great wife someday. Promise me, you’ll belong to God until you get a husband.” His voice cracked as he pulled a ring out of his pocket. It was a party, but the room had gone completely silent. The music and cheering had entirely stopped. It was as if we were witnessing a mother giving birth—with all the blood and gore and body parts exposed. I felt like I should leave or look away. Ruby’s face was suddenly like that of a person who woke up from drowning. He continued, “I give you this ring as a promise that you’ll remain pure until marriage.” Of course, he said other things, but that’s what I remember. The ring looked like a wedding ring with a diamond and a swirl around it. As he put it on her finger, I felt that kind of second-hand embarrassment that made me want to leave. They both started crying and hugged. I wondered if her tears were tears of love or something else. From the looks of the kids around me, I figured most of them knew Ruby was gay. In school, coming out was like nothing. People would disclose it to their friends and reveal it in games of truth or truth. In my grade, there were at least twenty openly LGBTQ+ kids. Nobody made fun of them. While the crowd watched, the caterers cut the cake and put the slices onto plates. After that, they called us up table by table. The cake was rich and chocolatey, but overpowered by the sweetness from the strawberry buttercream. It made me want to gag, but I ate it. I stuffed myself to the point of feeling somewhat sleepy. Afterwards, I went back on the dance floor, but the awkwardness had sucked the energy out of the party. People started to leave. A few of us danced until the DJ started repeating songs, and then we found Ruby to thank her. She was giving out little bags containing magnifying glass keychains and candy. Then, we said our goodbyes and got into my mom’s car. When I told my mom what happened, she said, “Wow. I thought you said Ruby was gay.” The next week, I saw Ruby on campus. She was sitting in the cafeteria with her friends. I sat down beside her and asked, “What’s up?” I noticed she wasn’t wearing her promise ring anymore. “Where’s your ring?” I asked.

“Oh, I just stopped wearing it.” After that, she changed the subject to her math test, and she didn’t mention the ring or the party for the rest of lunch. The incident was briefly the hot topic on campus. Students talked about how she shouldn’t hide who she was from her parents and how creepy her dad was. But pretty soon, we all forgot about it; we had other things to worry about, like tests, sports, and recitals. Eventually, we would all have to deal with college applications and the real life of job hunting and taxes. Someday Ruby would have to come out to her parents, but for now, we ate our lunches and waited for the bell to ring.

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ALLISON LIANG Photography | Princeton Day School, Princeton, NJ

Stay Put! Digital photography 2019 200

Red ShovelPromote Social Civilization Digital photography 2019 201

JESSICA LIN Novel | Carnegie Vanguard High School, Houston, TX

Unzipped There are two ways to skin a rabbit. Well, one could argue that the plausible methods stretched to infinity, but Brynn only had two in mind as she set her knife beside the plump, lifeless body of a cottontail, a .22lr round in the back of its head. She could either start with an incision on the back, or the stomach. Of course, the method didn’t really matter, both would produce a fleshy puppet, but Brynn’s pale, ungloved hands didn’t reach for the knife just yet. Currently, the rabbit lay supine on top of a ratty card table in the middle of Brynn’s backyard, burnt umber belly to the rising sun. She loomed over its body, seated in a folding chair that didn’t quite match the table. While the soft fur was certainly inviting, starting with the back would be quicker. Rigor mortis hadn’t settled into the creature’s limp arms yet, and they flopped around as Brynn gingerly flipped over its body. Her arm crept for the knife, but— if she wanted an intact pelt, wouldn’t the stomach be the way to go? “Hey chickadee.” A low baritone interrupted the winter breeze. Jeremy, her uncle and sole caretaker, popped up behind her. He was dressed in Walmart’s latest camo fashion, not unlike her own attire, although the fabric hung loosely on his tall, lanky frame. After tapping her on the shoulder, he resumed wiping a rifle with an off-white rag. “Sucks that we didn’t bag anything else.” “Yeah, but there’s only so much I could prep before school.” “Speaking of which, you going to be ready in time?” “How much longer?” “About an hour.” Brynn nodded, two thick braids of hay whipping as she turned back to the rabbit. She examined it for a moment before speaking. “So, do you want me to tan the skin?” He shrugged. “Up to you.” She returned the shrug. “I don’t care either.” Silence followed as she picked up the knife, which Jeremy bought for their first hunting adventure four years ago, and fiddled with it. The black paint along the grip was chipping off, and even regular sharpenings couldn’t keep the blade in optimal condition. Jeremy cleared his throat. “You want me to decide, don’t you?” A tentative nod. Without skipping a beat, Jeremy responded. “Okay, well, I say skip the skin. I don’t want you to be late.” “But what—” “What if you find yourself one pelt off from completing something?” “Yeah, or if we want to sell it?” “Then you just answered your question.” “But…” Jeremy chuckled slightly, walking over to wrap his arm around her shoulder and give it a squeeze. “Chickadee, relax. It isn’t the end of the world. Though I figure this is why you still haven’t gotten a new knife?” “Hey, I was going to.” “I know, I know.” Jeremy let go and leaned against the table. “All I’m saying is that I won’t always be here to make your decisions.” “Yeah, so I have to consult you while I have the time.” Jeremy crossed his arms. “That’s not—” “Yeah yeah, I know what you’re saying.” Brynn waved it off, then pinched a section of the rabbit’s skin and stuck her knife through. After creating a small opening, she wiggled her fingers in to make the hole larger and larger. Finally, it was big enough for both hands to go in. From 202

there, it only took a minute to peel off the skin, which separated from the muscles like a mandarin orange. The newly-exposed, lean meat glistened in the rising sunlight, and luckily, there was minimal blood. “Do you think humans are like this?” Brynn asked absentmindedly. “Like, if you tried this with human skin?” “That isn’t really a question I want answered.” “But c’mon, at the funeral home, you’ve never wondered?” She was, of course, referring to the Fanshaw Funeral Home, which Jeremy was the seventh Fanshaw to own. If the lineage were to continue, Brynn would one day become the eighth. And because of his position, Jeremy was also the coroner of Dalton County, which proudly held the title of the third smallest county in Pennsylvania. “Not really,” Jeremy said. “But you can ask Cassandra the next time she comes around.” “Yeah, but she hasn’t been here in ages. I wish something interesting would actually happen at the funeral home.” “Hey, my job is interesting.” “Nope. Cassandra is way cooler.” While one might expect Jeremy’s role as a coroner to involve autopsies, he only gained the title because he had beaten Mike Temple in the county election three years ago. With no medical degree, the state of Pennsylvania only entrusted Jeremy with the power of external examination. If an autopsy was needed, although unusual deaths were few and far between in a population of 7,000, he would have to call upon the assistance of Cassandra Jia. As the only medical examiner within a 100 mile radius, Cassandra was actually licensed to cut into the bodies. Whenever her aqua van made its semiannual appearance in the Fanshaw parking lot, Brynn would beg Jeremy to watch the autopsies. She lapped up every bit, although she wasn’t allowed into the room. Forced to stay behind a thick glass window, she had to crane her head for an angle where the body wasn’t obscured by Cassandra. “What I don’t get, is why I’m allowed to do this,” Brynn used her knife to point at the rabbit she was beginning to gut, “but not watch the autopsies.” “A little bunny is a hell of a lot different than a human being,” Jeremy said. “Maybe one day, but you’ll have to wait.” Brynn stuck out her lower lip, but most of her attention was on the rabbit again. She had to be careful about not bursting the intestine because, well, let’s just say fecal matter does not improve the taste of a stew. But soon enough, all of the innards, except for the liver, heart, and kidneys, were tossed into a red, plastic bucket. “Done?” Jeremy asked. Brynn nodded, setting down the knife as Jeremy placed all of the edible parts onto a white cutting board. Then, she began to push herself up out of the seat where she had spent the last half hour. “Here, let me help you,” Jeremy started to say, but Brynn pushed him away. Instead, she reached for her forearm crutches and hoisted herself up. Tattered orange duct tape covered the aluminum length, matching the hunting vest she’d worn earlier that morning. To everyone in town, Brynn was known as “the girl with the crutches”. This was because of her spina bifida. Spina bifida oculta to be precise, but no one ever bothered to ask for the details. If they did, they would learn that spina bifida occulta is the most mild and common type of spina bifida, where those affected have a small gap in their spine. This is

in contrast to the more serious types, in which a sac of fluid is formed at the spinal opening, and in some cases, the spinal cord is in the sac. While a quick Google search of the birth defect would be filled with people in wheelchairs, Brynn had enough mobility to just need her crutches. She just had to deal with the pain and tingling. Plus the occasional incontinence, but that could be solved by wearing pads everyday. The pain was definitely worse. Because of it, Brynn’s steps were also twisted and uneven as she made her way to the backdoor of the house. They had moved into the one-story building after Brynn’s fifth birthday, because the stairs at Jeremy’s prior accommodations proved to be too challenging for the girl who was still struggling to walk at that age. Now, stairs were a breeze, but the quaint house was all the two Fanshaws needed. Brynn’s post-hunting morning routine wasn’t much. After a quick shower and throwing on some yoga pants and a band shirt, she was in the kitchen. She raided the medicine cabinet for her daily handful of pills, mostly treatments for UTIs and bladder related issues. The cabinet was overrun by her orange bottles, although they also contained medicine for Jeremy’s back pain. Once every prescribed pill was downed (followed by a gallon of water), she scrolled on her phone as she waited by the door. However, her haste had been in vain, as Jeremy was nowhere to be found. “Hey, are we leaving soon?” Brynn asked when Jeremy finally exited his room, which had been closed. He was manically buttoning the top button of his salmon shirt and raised his eyebrows, as if Brynn’s appearance was a surprise. “Damn it. Knew I forgot to tell you something.” Brynn scrunched her eyebrows, slightly concerned. “Don’t worry, you’re going to like this. I have to go to St. Mary’s to refill your meds and stuff. It might take the whole day, so you can man the funeral home after school.” “Really?” “It’s all yours chickadee.” He tossed her a pair of keys, which she barely caught. “So you’re not taking me to school?” “Right. Forgot that too. I called Kayla, she should be coming any minute.” It took a few minutes, but eventually a red Nissan that belonged to her best friend squealed in the front driveway. Brynn quickly hugged Jeremy, then walked over to the passenger seat. When she did, she listened to Kayla recount her weekend’s adventures for the five-minute-long ride to the dingy, brick building known as the Dalton County High School. Over this particular weekend, Kayla had attempted to curl her hair using some DIY method that she had found online. While the results were certainly different from the sleek, black hair that she usually sported, the lopsided curls weren’t the worst thing in the world. At least they were better than freshman year’s bangs. Brynn combed her fingers through her own hair. She had meant to put the dirty blonde strands into a braid, but as the school’s parking lot came into view, she resigned herself to a messy bun. The actual school day was uneventful. With only 34 students in the whole eleventh grade, it wasn’t hard to predict what would happen. Mr. Cessna, the history teacher, would have technical difficulties with the projector; Samuel Brau would make an inappropriate comment in an attempt to impress Lauren O’ Neil; and lunch would be a combination of beiges and browns, though there might be a hint of green if the menu was particularly fancy. Sure enough, Brynn ended the school day unscathed. As soon as the final bell rang, she made her way from 7th period statistics to Kayla’s locker as quickly as she could, reaching it even before the owner. “Someone’s in a hurry,” Kayla said, once she finally arrived. She opened her locker, catching an overstuffed duffel bag that was already half falling out. “Sorry. Excited. Can I get a-” Brynn stopped short, smirking as she noticed a rose inside Kayla’s locker. “Who’s that from?” “No one.” Kayla tried to slam the locker shut, but not before Brynn snagged the rose. “Is that what the new hair is about?” Brynn asked. She examined the slightly wilted flower, using a crutch to prevent Kayla from stealing it back. “Maybe. Anyways, you were asking for something?” Brynn raised her eyebrows, but she decided to let the subject drop, for now. “I need a ride to the funeral home.”

“Oh shoot, I forgot. Coach scheduled a volleyball practice last minute. We’re going against West Lake this weekend, and... y’know.” Everyone knew. Simply put, the Dalton County Defenders weren’t very good at upholding their name. In order to defend something, one must first procure it, and the school hardly won anything in the realm of athletics. The only exception to the sad statistics was boys volleyball, but they owed their success to the limited motivation for rural high schools to have a team in the first place. That’s where West Lake Junior/Senior High School came in. It was the only other school in the league to have lost five girls volleyball matches in a row, so maybe the Defenders finally had a chance. “Don’t worry, I can find another ride,” Brynn said. “Good luck!” “Thanks. Yeah, really sorry. Have fun with the dead people though.” Kayla slung the duffle bag over her shoulder, giving a small salute before heading towards the gym. Ordinarily, this would be the time that Brynn would enlist the help of her other friends. Unfortunately, all of said friends were also on the volleyball team. She didn’t blame them; she would have tried out for the team if it could be done sitting down, but she just needed a way to get to the funeral home. By now, the halls were pretty much cleared out, although the linoleum-floored walkways didn’t receive much traffic to begin with. Most people at the school would have happily given her a ride, but anyone who was still left was likely staying for afternoon activities. While the 23-minute walk was certainly plausible, the tingling on her lower back convinced her to find an alternative form of transportation. Brynn exited the school, then waited for a familiar car to pass by. Before long, a black pickup truck that belonged to Mr. Hayes, the town’s florist, came into view. Even though she couldn’t see him through the tinted glass, she imagined his jubilant smile and ratty Steelers cap. She waved her hands, motioning for him to stop. “Can you give me a ride to the funeral home?” Brynn asked when he rolled down his window. “Sure thing, hop on in.” Tossing her crutches and backpack in first, Brynn scootched into the back seat. The interior of the truck smelled like a step into spring, and grains of yellow pollen stuck out like stars against the black floor. She looked back towards the bed of the truck, noticing a rainbow assortment of carnations and— “Hey, Mr. Hayes?” “Yup?” “Have you by chance sold any roses recently?” He scratched his unruly beard. “You know what, I think I might have.” “Who bought them?” Brynn asked, a little too quickly. “Is this about a boy?” Mr. Hayes’ voice suddenly took on a hint of fatherly protectiveness, even though he didn’t have any children of his own. “Oh no, I’m not asking for me. Although yeah, any guys who bought them?” Brynn could tell he was unconvinced. “Well, I can’t recall. I’ll have to check when I get back to the shop. I can call Jeremy’s office if you’re gunna be there til six.” As he said these words, the truck pulled up to their destination, which appeared to be just an average, wood-planked house brushed with fading white paint. The only indication that the building was not a residential home was the small sign planted into the front lawn, but even that could be mistaken for a homeowner’s political endorsement. Brynn thanked Mr. Hayes and hopped out of the truck. Using the keys Jeremy had given her, she managed to unlock the door in under three tries. Enough sunlight was shining through the front blinds for Brynn to make her way to the light switch, but it was still a bit eerie. Everything about the front lobby was as stereotypically funeral home as one could expect, complete with mahogany furniture, a pervasive musty smell, and patterned maroon carpet from the 80s. In the center stood the welcome desk, which is where Brynn would likely spend the next four hours, minus a restroom break. Moving past the front lobby, there was the service room and the fridge. The service room was self-explanatory enough. Two rows of five pews faced an elevated stage with a podium and enough room for a casket. It was basically a watered down chapel, but Brynn enjoyed decorating the small room according to each family’s requests. Most opted 203

for simple floral arrangements, provided by Mr. Hayes, but others wanted the deceased’s personality to really shine through. One of her favorites was the funeral for Joyce Burke, who had been an avid Halloween fan. Brynn had filled the room full of pumpkins, lights, and cobwebs, all in the middle of July. Attendees showed up in elaborate costumes, celebrating what Joyce had enjoyed most. That’s how Brynn wanted to go as well, although she wasn’t passionate enough about anything to dedicate her entire funeral to it. Beyond the service room, hidden in a back hallway with a sign that said “Employees Only,” was the fridge. This made sense, given that the fridge was where all the corpses were kept. While maximum capacity was technically four bodies, it was a rare occurrence if it held two at the same time. Making herself comfortable, Brynn propped her crutches against a filing cabinet and sat down in the rolling office chair behind the desk. She spun around a few times, letting the chair take her wherever it wanted. It must’ve been what rolling around in a wheelchair was like. She closed her eyes. While people told her she was blessed for the ability to walk, Brynn wouldn’t mind being on wheels every once in a while, especially on bad days. Those were the days when the usual numbness in her feet decided to visit other parts of her legs; a constant bombardment of pins and needles. Using her arms, Brynn pushed her way back to the desk. Behind its elevated flat surface sat a computer somehow older than the ones at school, although it was sufficient to keep up with the trickling stream of customers. On the thick frame of the computer an assortment of constantly changing post-it notes was lined up, most of them reminders to call back so-and-so or restock a certain supply. The only perennial one was the hot pink square that had two phone numbers and an email on it: Cassandra’s contacts. Given that Brynn was the only body in the funeral home, dead or alive, she knew she could relax a bit. While it was pretty uncommon for there to be visitors, she made sure to reorganize the brochures on the desk just in case. She picked up the one entitled: The End is Just the Beginning, flipping through the stock photo images and poorly lit pictures of the building’s interior. After placing it back, she logged into the computer and opened Netflix. Although the computer was more than a little outdated, the internet connection was surprisingly good compared to the spotty connection back at home. She placed a pair of bulky black headphones over her ears, then immersed herself into a new romcom that had just been released. Just as the two love interests were about to reveal their feelings to each other, Brynn heard the front door jangle faintly. Sure enough, when she looked up, someone had entered the lobby. “I found all the guys who bought roses,” Mr. Hayes said, smiling as he held up a folded up sheet of paper. “Oh, that’s great, thank you so much!” Brynn quickly took off her headphones and paused her movie. “I thought you were going to call.” “Well, I was headed down this way anyways, so I thought I might pop in. There were a few recent purchases, so I just wrote ‘em all down.” “Yeah, that’s great, thanks!” Brynn waited for Mr. Hayes to bid his farewells and leave, then scrambled to unfold the paper. Sprawled in barely legible black ink were three names: William Cessna, Jaxon Benningfield, and Elijah Gil. Right off, she eliminated Mr. Cessna. Not only was thinking about her history teacher like that just plain gross, but she vaguely remembered him mentioning an anniversary with his wife, so roses made sense. That left Jaxon and Elijah, who were both viable candidates. Jaxon was in their grade: blonde, short, and strong. If he was Kayla’s admirer, Brynn could live with it, but his IQ was less than stellar. Elijah was the better pick, but he was a senior. And he had a girlfriend, maybe. The latter was still unclear, depending on who you got the story from. All that mattered was that Brynn had a lead, and she could start interrogating Kayla tomorrow. After the surprisingly exciting sleuthing, Brynn returned to her movie. There were still thirty minutes left, but if she started on homework immediately after it ended, she would be able to finish most of it before closing up shop. Unfortunately, Netflix’s autoplay had different ideas, and Brynn was halfway through a baking show when she noticed that it was already 7:00 pm. Fifteen minutes overtime; not bad for the first day. Too bad she wasn’t getting paid. 204

Turning off all the lights post sunset was even scarier than entering in the dark. Brynn hurriedly gathered her belongings and shuffled outside, making sure to lock the door. Her house was only a few minutes away, and she walked the block in silence. The only sound was the pounding of crutches against pavement, which had basically become the metronome of her life. Brynn’s house was a quaint, one-story building made of red bricks painted beige by Uncle Jeremy himself. He had followed a guide found in a home improvement magazine, but buying the paint had been the only successful step. At least the drip marks and patches of pink showing through gave it character. As Brynn walked up the steps to the front door, she didn’t notice the car that was haphazardly parked on the driveway, masked by the darkness of the night. The left tires were crushing the unkempt lawn. The front door creaked as Brynn pushed the door open. It was unlocked. Strange, but she had a habit of forgetting to lock it in the morning. She shrugged off her backpack and made her way to the kitchen, steps echoing throughout the house. When she got there, she tensed up. Cabinets were swung wide open, and Brynn definitely hadn’t done that. Grasping her crutches tightly, ready to whack an intruder if need be, Brynn ventured into the rest of the house. The living room was clear, as was her own bedroom. One by one she checked, until only the closed door of Uncle Jeremy’s room was left. She pressed her ear against the white wood, but there was nothing. Deep breaths. One, two. Three. Brynn pushed open the door. She was greeted by the same full-sized bed that had always been there, but something was still off. Her nose immediately scrunched up. Sour. Blankets were falling off the far side of the bed. She walked over, heart beating faster and faster with each step. There was the faint outline of a head peeking out from behind the bed frame. As Brynn rounded the corner of the bed, she saw the rest of the body sprawled on the ground, contorted in a position that could not be comfortable. Unmoving, it was facedown, head buried in the brown carpet. She didn’t have to flip it over to know who it was; the clothes told her. It was Jeremy, but finding out that there was no intruder didn’t assuage Brynn’s fears, it only morphed them. With his pale skin, he looked— she didn’t want to say it. He couldn’t be. However, her body betrayed her thoughts, and she could feel her eyes beginning to well up. She poked an arm with a crutch, but it was limp. “Jeremy?” Brynn tentatively asked, as if her whispers would somehow awaken him. Still no response. Brynn tried remembering what health class had taught her: to check for a pulse. She threw her crutches to the ground and tried holding two fingers to his wrist, but they were shaking too badly to get an accurate read. His skin was cool, clammy almost, but she refused to let those thoughts settle in. Plan B. Bringing her head closer to his mouth, she listened for any sign of breathing. It was hard to hear over the sound of her own intermittent gasping, but there might’ve been a faint gurgling noise. Brynn exhaled. She quickly flipped the body over, and Uncle Jeremy’s shallow breathing began to fill the silence of the room. “Jeremy, wake up.” Brynn tried shaking him, but there was nothing. That’s when she noticed the vomit encrusted on his lips. Warm tears coursed down her face as she tried everything, from flicking to loud noises, to wake him. It was all futile; he was completely out and his breath was slowly getting fainter. Brynn’s hands trembled as she reached for her phone, something she should have done right from the start. She dialed the number and waited for the operator to pick up. “911, what is your emergency?” Brynn wanted to meet whoever had designed the first hospital waiting room. She had been in her fair share of them, and they were all the same: stale air, uncomfortable chairs, walls devoid of any warmth. The Dalton County General Hospital was no different, although it didn’t have the fish tank that her specialist hospital had. The only decoration here was a small black and white photo of the city hanging on the wall. Without anything better to look at, she reverted back to an old habit: counting the blue and beige floor tiles. All in all, there were 127 of them.

The digital clock on the reception desk said that it was only 8:21 pm, but it felt like it had been much longer. At this time, the waiting room was mostly empty, except for a few heads of messy hair and eye bags. If she had to wait any longer, Brynn would soon join their ranks. A disinterested nurse was behind the desk, but no one had spoken to Brynn since she had sat down. She still didn’t have the vaguest idea what was wrong with Uncle Jeremy. After the EMTs had arrived at the house, they sprayed something up his nose, then carried him out on a stretcher. She wanted to be by his side during the ambulance ride, but they made her sit in the front, and she was too tired to argue. Maybe it had been for the best. His limp body was still seared into her mind, the details sharpening as her eyelids began to droop. “Ms. Fanshaw?” A loud, female voice brought Brynn back from dreamland, although she didn’t remember falling asleep. She looked up, finding a tall nurse gesturing to what she could only assume was the emergency room. “Oh, I can go in?” The nurse nodded, leading the way through a maze of mint green curtains and empty gurneys. They arrived at a closed curtain, faint beeps emitting through the plastic. A hand opened the curtain from the inside, revealing a doctor with graying hair and a matching beard standing over an intubated man. The nurse left as Brynn headed straight for the hospital bed. “Is he—” Brynn started to ask. “He is unconscious right now, but in stable condition,” said the doctor. “I am Dr. Potowski by the way.” He reached his hand out, but Brynn was too focused on the machinery surrounding her, everything leading to Uncle Jeremy. The tubes seemed to engulf his pale body, but his eyes were closed in peaceful slumber. She looked away, not wanting to see the man who had raised her in such a vulnerable state. “So what happened?” Brynn choked, avoiding eye contact with Dr. Potowski. “Can you fix it?” “The test results will not come back until tomorrow, but we have a pretty good idea as to what happened.” “Which is?” Dr. Potowski didn’t respond right away. As his eyebrows scrunched together, he inhaled deeply, trying to find the right words. “Your uncle overdosed on opioids.” His words hung in the air, sounding a mixture of foreign and familiar. Of course Brynn knew what opioid overdoses were; the news stations would never shut up about them. It was the phrase that lived in headlines, between neighbors, and whispers on the street. Even Uncle Jeremy had to deliver the unfortunate news from time to time. But it was always applied to the bottom of the barrel: junkies, runaways, and the like. Not do-gooders who actually helped people. “There has to be another explanation,” Brynn finally said. “Ms. Fanshaw, I know this might be unexpected, but people often find ways to hide—” “He wouldn’t do that.” “I know this situation is overwhelming, but addiction can be very complicated. Right now, we need to focus on making sure that your uncle gets better.” “But I know Uncle Jeremy. He’s not like that.” Dr. Potowski sighed, lowering his voice. “I have seen this scenario before, and while it isn’t pleasant, I am almost certain that he experienced an overdose. I will tell you when the tests come back, but for right now, I will be treating him as such.” Brynn reluctantly nodded. She listened as the doctor described all the possibilities that could happen when Jeremy woke up, if he did at all. It could be anything from leaving the hospital scotch-free to borderline brain death. He also inquired about any suspicious behavior, but Brynn’s mind was too foggy to pinpoint any exact details. “We will call you first thing when he wakes up,” said Dr. Potowski. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” “Yeah, thanks. Is there anything else I can do?” Brynn asked. “You need time to process everything right now. Plus, we will have a better idea of what we are dealing with when he’s conscious.” Dr. Potowski was right. Brynn’s mind was still trying to make sense of the wall of information that had been thrown at her. Uncle Jeremy had

apparently hidden an entire facet of his life away from others, including her. That part stung, and that’s the part she clung to as her mind began to devise alternative justifications. Maybe he had been framed. Maybe there was some sort of rare disorder that presented the exact same symptoms. These what-ifs continued to float around in her mind as she headed back to the waiting room. 10:04 pm flashed on the clock. It wasn’t terribly late yet, but a realization was slowly dawning on Brynn: she didn’t have a way to get back home. The bumpy ambulance ride had completely slipped her mind, and the city planner, or lack of one, had decided that the ideal location of the hospital should be right at the county limits. She sighed, then started scrolling through her phone’s contact list and texting anyone who might be a helpful soul. Kayla was the first to respond, and 40 minutes later, her car’s headlights flashed through the hospital’s windows. “What happened?” Kayla asked as soon as Brynn slammed the passenger door shut. “Something’s wrong with Jeremy. They don’t really know why yet.” “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Do you want to stay at my place? I’m sure my parents wouldn’t mind.” Brynn was thankful that Kayla had suggested it first. She had been dreading going back to her vomit-smelling home, especially alone. Kayla called to give a quick heads up to her parents, then connected her phone to her car’s speaker and blasted early 2010’s pop. At first, Brynn just listened to her friend’s off-key performance, but they both knew that she was a sucker for Taylor Swift. Soon, both girls were jamming out along the empty road, though no amount of singing could distract Brynn from the day’s events. When they arrived at Kayla’s house, the mouthwatering smell of roasted chicken immediately wafted out the door. Kayla’s mom, Mrs. Tewers, stood at the breakfast table, which was set with mismatched silver cutlery. A half-eaten chicken and broccoli casserole sat in the middle, along with a few cloverleaf dinner rolls. “Brynn, I’m so sorry to hear what happened to Jeremy. This isn’t much, but we thought you might be a little hungry,” said Mrs. Tewers. “If you need anything else, just ask.” Brynn smiled in appreciation and grabbed a dinner roll, but she didn’t sit down. Although her stomach felt empty, so did the rest of her insides. She nibbled at a corner of the roll, hoping that it would stay down, then followed Kayla to her room. Stepping into Kayla’s room was like entering a completely different world compared to the rest of the Tewers house. Mrs. Tewers valued saving money over the collective aesthetic, and Mr. Tewers could hardly get his socks to match each morning. But Kayla’s room was her own little sanctuary, so she spiced it up as she pleased. It was a shockwave of bright yellow, which had been her favorite color since first grade. Yellow blankets, yellow walls, yellow carpet, although the latter was beginning to fade into an ugly shade of urine. There were also tiny house plants everywhere, although their yellow habitat didn’t make up for the lack of sun, and thus many of them were wilting. On the carpet, Kayla had laid out a navy blue sleeping bag. She had also moved the white upholstered chair that usually sat in the corner of the room closer to the bed, but Brynn thought nothing of it. Stacked on top of it were some clothes for Brynn to change into. Kayla was relatively slim, but Brynn had stayed over enough times that she kept some larger clothing stashed in the back of the closet. When Brynn finished changing into the pajamas and brushing her teeth, she found Kayla getting situated in the sleeping bag. “Why aren’t you in your bed?” Brynn asked. “You can take it tonight,” Kayla replied. “It’s more comfortable.” “I don’t want to accidentally…” “If that happens, I can wash the sheets. It’s totally fine. Sleep in the bed, please?” “Fineeee.” Brynn feigned annoyance, but the upturned corners of her mouth betrayed her true emotions. She tossed a pillow down for Kayla and prayed that her minimal dinner would decrease the chance of an accident. After leaning her crutches against the conveniently placed chair, she fell into the gentle hug of the yellow comforters. Kayla turned off the lights, but Brynn wasn’t ready for sleep quite yet. Brynn’s mind was still racing through possible theories for Uncle Jeremy’s unwellness. It had to be something besides drugs. Once she 205

heard Kayla’s breath transform into the soft whistle of snoring, she silently got out of bed and snuck to the corner where their phones were charging. She leaned heavily against the wall, but managed to return back to the bed without disturbing Kayla. Then, into an internet search rabbit hole she dove. She scrolled through search results on strokes and different infections, barely noticing the time fly by, and completely forgetting about school the next day. When morning came, Brynn walked through the motions of her life. She only spent three nights at Kayla’s house, following the same instruction manual for normality. School melted into a banal blob, and while Brynn still worked at the funeral home, her previous interest had been squashed by the very real possibility that her uncle could end up being wheeled in on a cart. The Tewers were great, but even though she tried to express her gratitude, Brynn could only speak in monosyllables. As far as trips to the hospital went, Brynn drove herself there. She had asked Kayla to drop her off at her house in hopes of finding the car, and sure enough, she found it parked in all of its uneven glory. In order to drive, Brynn used a black lever that was on the left of the steering wheel to brake and accelerate, which had been installed for her sixteenth birthday. The adaptive controls didn’t replace the foot pedals, which is why both she and Jeremy could use it. Brynn hoped for good news each time she visited him, but she was always greeted by his unconscious body. Jeremy had been moved to a different room, one that had a personal TV and an actual door, but could his unconscious body even tell the difference? As suggested by Dr. Potowski, she told him about her day, just in case he could hear her. She would usually stay and do her homework as well, not wanting to miss any possible developments. Nothing happened though. The lab results never came, and Dr. Potowski said it was because the hospital didn’t have a lab of its own, so they had to outsource it. In the evenings, Brynn drove back to Kayla’s house. Mrs. Tewers was an amazing cook, although Brynn never had much of an appetite. She would eat a bite or two, mostly waiting for Kayla to finish to bring her own plate to the sink. Then, both girls did their homework, with Kayla sometimes recounting her day, before going to sleep. Nights were marked by Brynn waking up to do covert research, but the link-clicking was becoming increasingly fruitless. However, at least her venture into the single digit hours of the night meant she was awake when the hospital finally called.

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E M I LY L I U

Poetry | Neuqua Valley High School, Naperville, IL

DEATH BY HANGING after Nagisa Ōshima I was supposed to die but my body refused to. My bones slipped from their ropes, dreamed their way back under the ash of the pear trees on the schoolyard roof where the first sin occurred. Should I feel shame? Should I remember my crime? Come morning, last night’s notions of return are absurd. Extant somewhere outside of physical space—not knowing where you are in the empire, not knowing where you are in the body—I know the only thing a human should be scared of is living where they’re not supposed to. Although my feet swung below the trapdoor, although I almost fainted from my painful heart, I want to tell you: a poem decolonizes nothing. There are four walls to a prison. There are two borders to a country. Still, you cannot escape from your body. A body cannot escape from the consciousness that has settled in like the strangled embrace of a mother.

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ALLEGORY OF THE OX-HEADED GOD “The only thing in the world that’s worth beginning: The End of the World, no less.” -Aimé Césaire, Return to My Native Land I am anti-American and won’t repent. I came to destroy everything you built, the life you imagined I would build. I destroyed it for you. Mimicking the tree that is blooming in the mother country, which is wilting because it is in the wrong place, I lunched on grass with the angles of my mouth. Against an oxen nature I lost my tongue inside my head but still screamed when skewered to a pike. Meanwhile. White America ordered me to be civil, carved a shadow on slaughter and called it an opportunity for reformation. The normative lines were always moving in the direction of progress. The subaltern could be saved by moving them in the line of progress. Progress, I don’t believe in such reticent hysteria. The night cracked its rancid jaws. I stuck myself inside its oblong maw and sawed off my head. A stone rolling on the ground like a consonant. Revolutionary optimism is the belief that we can end something. What I fear: that another beginning will nuzzle its hot mouth into my hands.

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JACQ U E LI N E LI U Visual Arts | Weston High School, Weston, MA

SIX FEET! Acrylic on wood panel 2020 210

Anxiety Acrylic on wood panel 2020 211

E R I N LO F T US-R EI D Spoken Word | Lexington High School, Lexington, MA

To Growing Pains and Poppy Fields To the girl who ran at the first sign of dawn, the child I housed under the skin of my chest: I built this body around you, wrapped my bones around your likeness so the sting of rose-tinted lenses scraping skin as they fell from your grasp might be softened by the smile of a familiar face. And so spoiled you must be to leave this vacancy in the part of me where stars once slept, which is to say, I miss you -the way you tip-toed through dark nights and welcomed the rain as it stained your eyes. And the suburbs - sharpened edges and shutting doors - must have seemed kinder. Soaked in fire, they must have looked gold, gold as nectar from the lemon tree, knowing it would always be sweeter than wine from the liquor store, and love would always be the currency with which you bartered life’s luxuries, and home-Home is where the poppies grow. To the child who will live forever by the shore and just behind the horizon: tomorrow I will bury you in the part of my memory where the cold has not yet settled. But for now -The sun is sinking into the sea, and your mother is calling you home. The poppy field will be here in the morning, she says, right where you left it.

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Tonight, the T is Running We’ve become well acquainted in the walk from the stairs to the faded yellow line, which we lovingly straddle, flirting with fate, betting on the wind. Your hair is doused with gasoline and ink, strands stay stuck to your forehead, suffocating under the humidity of a Summer night in the city. I bet you dream of sundresses and the way silk used to feel when it was precious, the last scarf in your mother’s suitcase the day she came to visit. Lamplight flickers above my head as if to say look, look again and with care you pluck your heels from calloused feet, let the station cement greet you, unbarred, like an old friend. I wonder, does it make you feel free again? Does the distant ripple of the river dance in your mind, dark waters soothing fevered skin with a cool kiss? Your eyes linger on the soft glow of the city, reflected in the Charles as it weaves through careless. From the south, a rattle comes creeping and you tense, caught stealing moments for yourself. The T comes screeching. This time you won’t flinch, but let your pressed blouse flap in the night like a white flag. The doors part slowly, fluorescent lights cutting through the space between our bodies,

casting long shadows

across our faces. The car is empty at this hour and it’s strange that you didn’t say hello. Still, I watch the doors close behind your back and fall into the silence you’ve left. It’s early yet, and my train won’t be coming for a while now.

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CHAR LOT T E LO K E Y Play or Script | Lick Wilmerding High School, San Francisco, CA

Coneja Ext. Outer Richmond - Day. A busted-up Saab 900 pulls up to a sidewalk near Clement Street. It’s mid-day, but the fog still hangs thick in the air. Some cheesy 70’s funk song plays. A boy, (18) gets out on the driver’s side. He’s Central American, with dark shaggy hair and angular features. He wears flare pants and has a patch over his left eye. This is JULIO. He slides over the hood of the car and opens up the passenger door. A girl, (17) slides out of the passenger side, red cowgirl boots first. She is pretty, if not slightly unkempt. Bleach blond hair, Bikini Kill t-shirt, leopard print coat, and cut-offs. This is BUNNY. CAMERA moves behind the two and follows them as they walk. Ext. Ivanov’s house - day They arrive at the stoop of a baby pink stand-alone. It’s nice enough, but not particularly ritzy. BUNNY You have the lock pick?

JULIO I thought you were bringing it.

BUNNY turns around, frustrated, away from the door. Are you mad?

JULIO

BUNNY I’m not mad, Julio. It’s just that if we go through all this effort in making a plan-

BUNNY turns back towards CAMERA. Right-

JULIO

BUNNY It’s like if the plan had no purpose we wouldn’t do it. We knock on the door, we lose the element of surprise. Next thing you know we’re face down in a ditch with our fingertips sawed off.

BUNNY looks around the porch, then nudges JULIO.

Cut to:

Grab a brick.

BUNNY

Int. Ivanov’s entryway - day A brick crashes through a sidelight. JULIO’s disembodied hand reaches through the broken glass and unlocks the door from the inside. Cut to: INT. Ivanov’s living room - day. A pair of twins, YULIA and ALEXEY Ivanov (mid-20s) stand with a switchblade and empty bottle of wine, respectively. Both of them are lanky and sallow. From their appearances, one might guess that they suffered from some severe, untreated vitamin deficiency. Their living room looks like it was staged for a vintage Sears catalogue: shag carpets, beaded doors, lots of orange. YULIA (to the empty doorway) State your business or prepare to die!

BUNNY and JULIO turn the corner and walk into the room with hands up in surrender. ALEXEY smashes the bottom of his wine bottle, forming a weapon. JULIO No need to be hostile.

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BUNNY You two the Ivanov twins?

YULIA eyes her brother and tightens her grip.

YULIA We don’t keep our stash at our house, if that’s what you’re after.

BUNNY drops her hands.

BUNNY obliges.

BUNNY We’re not here to take your shit. Look!

Hands back up!

YULIA

BUNNY My name is Bunny Williams.

JULIO does a little nod.

(gesturing to JULIO) This is my associate Julio Gutierrez. BUNNY You two heard of us?

YULIA and ALEXEY tense, almost unnoticeably.

JULIO Bunny and I want this encounter to be as brief as you do. Quite frankly, we are working off a rigid agenda.

JULIO takes a seat on the arm of the couch.

JULIO We understand that you and your brother have some information my partner and I are particularly partial to hear.

BUNNY You two make the company of a Mr. Jean-Claude Baptiste? The man who’s gone and fucked up the whole of San Francisco? YULIA (raising an eyebrow) L’ Ophite Français. The French Serpent.

JULIO He’s Quebecois, actually. From Montreal.

BUNNY (whispering to JULIO) It doesn’t matter where the hell he’s from.

(turning back to YULIA) I assume you two know the son-of-a-bitch? He’s damn hard to miss. YULIA I’ve been known to make Mr. Baptiste’s company.

(beat; with sarcastic curiosity) So...who was it that put the hit on him this time? The Triads? Lanza?

BUNNY and JULIO give her nothing. YULIA raises a finger, feigning an epiphany.

YULIA Caputo. Knew it! Sneaky little bastard. Seems like the type to pull something like this. He certainly has the money for it. A long beat.

YULIA You expect us to snitch Baptiste out? Ideally.

JULIO

YULIA (leaning forward) Do I look like I rat to you?

BUNNY withdraws a tiny Glock from her waistband and takes aim at the twins.

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BUNNY I suggest with the whole of my being that you get wise real quick and tell us where the hell he is. Alexey, do you have anything to say for yourself ?

ALEXEY spits to his side like a cowboy. He pauses, before, with sarcastic enunciation: Fuck. You.

ALEXEY

With that, BUNNY succinctly shoots the brother and sister in their left knees. The twins cry out in shock and pain and fall to the floor. BUNNY I have a particularly compelling source telling me you two know more than you are willing to admit. I also have three bullets in this here gun and one hell of a shot. If my math’s correct, that makes a bullet a twin, plus one to grow on. Now, as I see it, you two have an awfully easy decision on your hands. Fess up or pay up!

JULIO

YULIA looks at ALEXEY. ALEXEY nods, as if to say Go ahead. YULIA If a lead will put you as far away from us as possible, then here’s your goddamn lead: Go to The Velvoredum next Thursday. JULIO The one in the Castro?

YULIA The only Velvoredum in the city. Ask for a guy named LIU WEI. Happy?

YULIA gives a strained smile.

Cut to:

JULIO Very. We thank you for your hospitality.

YULIA Now, will you please piss off and let me and my brother bleed out in peace?

Ext. Velvoredum - night We hear the thumping pulse of HOUSE MUSIC shut behind an upholstered door. INSERT: A chintzy looking Nevada driver’s license with a picture of JULIO (notably without an eyepatch). According to the ID, JULIO is 34. Cut to: A bouncer, incredulously stares at an overly-confident JULIO, who is wearing glittery makeup and a mesh tank top. A line of gay partygoers are queued behind him, eager to get in. BUNNY is nearby, clutching a fur coat around her shoulders. Las Vegas? Born and bred.

BOUNCER JULIO

BOUNCER What’s with the eyepatch?

The bouncer gives a look.

JULIO (dropping his smile) Unspecified conjunctivitis.

JULIO It’s not particularly contagious, if you’re worried.

The bouncer shakes his head, before grabbing JULIO’s hand and Sharpieing a large black “X” on the back of it. JULIO looks disappointed. BUNNY holds out her hand to get the same mark from the bouncer. She has a shit-eating grin smeared across her face. The bouncer unclips a velvet rope and lets them in. JULIO tells BUNNY to shut up as they step through the door. Int. The Velvoredum - night The atmosphere is sweaty and overwhelming, the club itself reminiscent of a hey-day Studio 54. Colored lights pulsate with the beat of the music. Throngs of attractive young men dance to a remix of “Gypsy Woman” by Crystal Waters and swirl around BUNNY and JULIO. The duo make their way to the bar, a backlit glass behemoth full of top-shelf liquor. We briefly hold on a strange-looking older man seated some distance away from BUNNY and JULIO at the bar. He nurses a scotch watches them intently. 216

BUNNY and JULIO manage to cut through the crowd and flag one of the BARTENDERs down. BARTENDER (noticing the X’s on their hands) Hey, sorry, man. We don’t serve minors.

BUNNY (yelling over the music) Oh, no. We’re not... we’re looking for someone who works here? Or parties here? Liu Wei? Liu?

BARTENDER

BUNNY nods. The BARTENDER points past JULIO and BUNNY. Cut TO: A Chinese dude with a mullet, track suit, and huge Elton John sunglasses (late 20s) is spinning records on a platform in the middle of the dance floor.

Cut to:

BARTENDER (O.S.) That right there is the most connected man in San Francisco.

BUNNY and JULIO stand at the base of the DJ platform. LIU WEI is remixing a fast-paced song by Azealia Banks before he notices them. LIU WEI (half distracted; to BUNNY and JULIO) Sorry, I’m not taking requests tonight.

BUNNY We’re not here to dance. My name is Bunny Williams and this is my friend Julio. We’ve been told you’re privy to some... intriguing information. No. NO.

LIU WEI

LIU WEI nudges a man to take his spot at the turntables before jumping off of the platform. Liu begins to dutifully make his rounds in the club like a mayoral candidate schmoozing his electorate. BUNNY and JULIO follow. What? No?

BUNNY

LIU WEI I’m over that...notorious shit. No more favors, no more hustling. Since when?

BUNNY

LIU WEI Since I decided I was over it.

(stopping; turning to BUNNY) Now, as much I would like to be badgered by 17-year-olds for the rest of my night, I have important DJ duties to fulfill. Ciao.

Liu walks away from them. BUNNY and JULIO stand awkwardly, unsure what to do next.

Cut to:

JULIO (calling after him) It’s about Baptiste if it makes any difference to you.

Int. private lounge - night The three sit on some cushy couches in a section of the club cut off by heavy velvet drapes. A map of San Francisco is laid out between them. LIU WEI toggles between a glass of scotch and a tiny joint. LIU WEI (taking a hit of his joint) You know, I don’t normally make exceptions like this. I’ve been clean as a G.D. whistle for what? Six months now. I’ve been a fricking Boy Scout. (exhaling) But a chance to fuck over Jean-Claude Baptiste? That I make an exception for. BUNNY So... do you know where he is?

LIU WEI (smiling) Just because I’m out of the lifestyle doesn’t mean I’m not still keeping tabs.

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LIU WEI leans forward over the map, pointing out an intersection with his finger. LIU WEI Last I heard, he was hanging out at a house in Pac Heights owned by the majority shareholder of NetForce Neil Lovazzano. (leaning back) What are you guys up to with Baptiste if you don’t mind my asking?

BUNNY (pause) We’re looking to collect a sort of... unofficial bounty that’s been placed on his head.

LIU WEI swipes his hand through the air.

LIU WEI Regardless, you guys are doing a goddamn service. Guy’s a douche. Thanks.

BUNNY

JULIO and BUNNY get up to leave.

LIU WEI Wait a damn minute, aren’t y’all staying to dance? BUNNY We weren’t planning on it.

JULIO But now that we’re here we might as well.

BUNNY shoots him a look. JULIO pretends not to notice. LIU WEI senses the tension. LIU WEI You guys seem un poquito up tight-o. How about a little treat to get the party started.

He gives an unsubtle wink and pulls two pills from his wallet. He holds them out and BUNNY and JULIO grab them. BUNNY (uncomfortably) Thanks.

LIU WEI On the house. Any friend of me is a friend of the club. JULIO (examining the pill) What is it?

LIU WEI (smiling) It’s called “El Angel Terminador.” A friend out in Little Manila invented it. Now, I can’t guarantee what’s in it, but I can guarantee a helluva good time.

LIU WEI holds out his two hands for fist bumps. BUNNY and JULIO tap their hands to his. LIU WEI Godspeed, mis amigos.

Cut to: Int. Lovazzano’s Kitchen - night

From a bird’s eye view, we watch a pair of hands masterfully prepare a steak dinner: slicing off the excess fat, seasoning the cut with salt and pepper, and basting it in a cast iron with butter.

head.

Cut to:

YULIA (O.S) We did the best we could, given we had two idiots in our living room drawing guns to our BAPTISTE (O.S) (in an affected French accent) But, you’re a smart girl. That’s why I hired you. I trust you to have done what I expect of you.

YULIA and ALEXEY sit at the end of an enormous dining table in a pristine mansion. They look beaten up.

Cut to:

218

YULIA (bitterly) They shot our knee caps, Baptiste.

The cook places the steak in front of a mousy-looking man (mid-20s). He has a beret and lots of rings on and smokes extra-long cigarettes. This is JeanClaude Baptiste. Baptiste politely grabs the chef ’s arm before he has the chance to leave. BAPTISTE Vodka and milk on the rocks, garçon (waiter). If you would be so kind.

The chef nods, and Baptiste turns back to the table and takes a bite of his steak.

BAPTISTE I must confess, this situation is not the first of its kind to grace my life. To be successful in our line of work is impossible without a little sacrifice in popularity. If I may be candid, I don’t think it’s possible to be successful in any line of work without making just as many enemies as allies.

Baptiste pauses, and looks gravely at the twins.

Are you my allies?

BAPTISTE

Another pause. He wants them to squirm.

BAPTISTE Because I sure as shit hope you are. ALEXEY (beat; meekly) Our hands were tied, sir.

BAPTISTE For every Goliath, there will always be 15 snot-nosed fuckers with a slingshot, waiting for the first sign of weakness to strike. If you pumpkin heads can’t manage a couple of brats with a BB gun, might as well throw in the towel.

The chef comes back with Baptiste’s drink. He downs it in one gulp. YULIA We sent them to Liu Wei.

BAPTISTE Not the worst case. But far from the best. See to it that these imbeciles do not reach me.

YULIA and ALEXEY nod and get up to go.

BAPTISTE My darlings, before you depart, what were these... despicable men’s names?

YULIA There were two of ‘em. Julio... Gutierrez, was it? And a young thing by the name of.. BUNNY.

BAPTISTE

YULIA nods. Baptiste is visibly off-put by this information. BAPTISTE Very well. Now shoo.

The twins leave. Baptiste sinks into his chair and swallows. He’s in deep shit. Cut to: Int. The VELVOREDUM - night BUNNY and JULIO re-enter the main section of the club. BUNNY seems over it. BUNNY You think the 24 is still running? If not we can call a Lyft.

JULIO You wanna leave now? We still have 30 minutes until this shit even kicks in.

BUNNY stops dead in her tracks.

BUNNY Are you fucking kidding me? You took the mystery party drugs? JULIO You let them go to waste?

BUNNY frowns and crosses her arm. JULIO grabs her hand and spins her, trying to get her to dance.

She begins to sway with him.

JULIO An hour. That’s all I need, Bun Bun.

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An hour.

Cut to:

BUNNY

An hour later. JULIO, LIU WEI, and a half-naked go-go boy perform a spirited lip sync performance of “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie” by Baccara on top of a table. It looks surprisingly well-choreographed. BUNNY watches, in half-horror, from the floor. Aside from her, everyone in the club appears to be eating it up. Half-way through the number, JULIO hobbles off the impromptu stage and nearly falls onto BUNNY. Liu and the go-go boy continue to dance in (on) pure ecstasy. JULIO grabs a clump of BUNNY’s hair and tugs her closer. JULIO I think I need to throw up.

Cut to:

Int. Velvoredum Bathroom - Night. A drowsy-looking JULIO cleans himself up at the sink. In the mirror, we see a shifty-looking man with a cold expression (mid-40s) emerge from behind a graffiti-covered bathroom stall. As he moves closer, we see it is the man who was watching JULIO and BUNNY at the bar. JULIO gives a perfunctory smile. The unknown man throws a rope around JULIO’s neck and begins to strangle him. (choking) What the fuck?

JULIO

After a struggle, JULIO swings around and throws himself backwards, slamming his attacker’s head onto the sink. The force of the blow brings both JULIO and the assailant to the floor. JULIO scrambles to his feet. In an instant, JULIO has his pistol aimed and boot on the neck of the stranger. JULIO What the hell’s the matter with you?!

STRANGER What the hell’s the matter with you? Going around poking your little pea brain into the business of grown ass men. Actin’ like a sticky-fingered toddler. Huh? boss.

JULIO

STRANGER Do I need to spell it out for ya? Step off Baptiste. Go play Dirty Harry with someone else’s JULIO San Francisco’s a big city. You must have me confused with someone else.

The stranger manages to grab JULIO’s ankle and pull his bottom half out from under him. JULIO comes down with a crash. The stranger gets the upper hand, pinning JULIO to the floor. STRANGER San Francisco’s a lot smaller than you think, compadre. Don’t get caught treadin’ where you don’t belong. Take this as a warning you bedazzled twerp: Baptiste has 10 other men with a whole lot less kindness than myself hunting down you and your girl as we speak. Let it be known, next time won’t end with you looking so pretty. JULIO (beat) What about the time after that?

STRANGER (thrown-off ) What? There won’t be a next time after...the next time. ‘Cuz you’ll be dead. Oh.

JULIO

The stranger gets off of JULIO, does the “I’m watching you” hand signal, and leaves the bathroom. Cut to: Int. Velvoredum - night JULIO re-enters the dance floor, looking like he’s seen the devil himself. He grabs BUNNY’s arm.

220

BUNNY Where the hell were you?

JULIO I’m afraid I was just strangled in the little boy’s room.

JULIO rushes BUNNY through the club. Ext. Castro Street - Night

BUNNY stomps down the street, following JULIO with her arms crossed. She shivers, having forgotten her coat inside. It is late now, but several straggling partygoers loiter. A paranoid JULIO scans the streets for hidden assailants. BUNNY JULIO! What are you doing?

JULIO stops and stares at her. After a beat:

He shoots his fingers like a gun.

JULIO What the hell are we doing? All this running around and... JULIO It’s fucking preposterous.

(pointing to a Camry) Am I bugging or is their third time around the block? BUNNY I don’t think I understand, Julio. You’re high.

JULIO sits down on a window stoop.

JULIO runs a hand over his face.

JULIO I’m not high. Well, I mean yes. I am, but... This is real shit.

JULIO What’s the grand plan Bunny? We kill Baptiste, make a couple thousand dollars, then spend the rest of our lives waiting around for someone to wipe our own noses? It doesn’t make any sense.

BUNNY is visibly hurt by this.

BUNNY If you think it’s so stupid, then why are you helping me? JULIO I don’t know, Bunny.

BUNNY (long beat) You really think it’s my heart’s goddamn desire to be killing for a living?

JULIO looks taken aback. Tears fill Bunny’s eyes.

BUNNY Back when I was living in Berkeley, my brother started spending time with the wrong people. I was twelveBunny..

JULIO

BUNNY ignores JULIO. Words leak out of her with uncontrollable desperation, like water out of a collapsed dam. BUNNY My brother was seventeen. He stole a couple bikes, then TVs, then cars. He got enough money from that to start acting selfish. When my brother was eighteen, a friend introduced him to that French-Canadian fuck, who introduced him to coke. By eighteen and a half, that dumbass had acquired a hole in his septum and $12,000 in debt. I woke up one morning and Baptiste and two other dudes were standing over my bed. My brother had dipped out to God knows where around 3 am that night, which they all knew. They also knew that I didn’t have dime, or even anything they could steal. (beat) So, they beat the shit out of me. Because they knew they could. I was 13.

She laughs slightly and wipes her tears. JULIO is horrified. Int. Muni - night

I woke up with two black eyes, six broken ribs, and a taste for fuckin’ blood.

BUNNY sits on the bus, head pressed to the window.

221

BUNNY (V.O.) (beat) I’m doing the job, Julio. With or without you.

Cut to: Int. BUNNY’s apartment - day Close up:

BUNNY’s fingers button up a dark work-shirt. Some steady, epic beat (think intro to “War Pigs”) scores the scene. Cut to: Int. Lovazzano’s House - Day From behind, we watch BAPTISTE pull on a silky robe. He is already wearing a beret. INTERCUT BETWEEN BABPTISTE AND BUNNY BUNNY leans over her bathroom sink and applies red lipstick. BAPTISTE saunters through a hallway into his living room. YULIA and ALEXEY are setting up a massage table and foot spa for him. BUNNY hears a KNOCK on the door. She opens it. JULIO is leaned against the doorframe. He and BUNNY are wearing matching outfits. Mr. Gutierrez...

BUNNY

Julio embraces Bunny. He pulls her away to look her in the eye: JULIO Let’s give that Quebecois bastard what’s been coming to him since he decided to fuck with Bunny-goddamn- Williams.

BAPTISTE, sitting down in the spa chair, lazily pulls a cigarette to his lips while ALEXEY dutifully buffs his nail beds. We see BUNNY and JULIO’s nimble hands load up two revolvers, then perform an elaborate handshake. It’s go time. Cut to: Int. LOVAZZANO’S HOUSE - Day

BAPTISTE sits in the luxurious living room as ALEXEY continues on his nails. BAPTISTE looks solemn, despite the pampering. YULIA is nearby, counting stacks of cash. We hear an enormous SHATTER of glass. Moments later, BUNNY and JULIO saunter into the living room. They are confident. In-the-zone. BAPTISTE is unbothered. BAPTISTE Would you look at that, mes chouchous (my darlings)! We have guests!

(getting up from his seat) I apologize for the casualness of my attire. You seem to have caught me in my leisure hour. JULIO I am afraid your “leisure time” stops here.

BUNNY and JULIO draw their weapons towards BAPTISTE. YULIA and ALEXEY drop their occupations and take aim at the intruders. BAPTISTE My friends, it appears our guests are really usurpers.

He claps his hands together in an act of mock disappointment.

BAPTISTE Quel dommage! (what a shame) YULIA Want us to handle this?

BAPTISTE What’s the fun in that. They are here for me, after all. Might as well give ‘em what they want. BUNNY You remember me, Jean-Claude?

BAPTISTE I never forget a face, Bunny. Especially one as lovely as yours. (drawing his own weapon) Shame to see it go to waste.

BUNNY and BAPTISTE begin circling one another. Mutually assured destruction.

222

BAPTISTE It doesn’t have to be like this, ma chérie (my darling). Don’t let your grace, your talent, be disgraced by the unfortunate consequences of your present lifestyle. You could be so much more.

BAPTISTE stops circling and drops his weapon. He kicks the firearm to the center of is shocked.

the room and puts his hands up in surrender. The whole room

BAPTISTE Join me. I implore you. Any amount of money you are being paid to hunt bounties will be doubled. Tripled! And JULIO?

BUNNY

BAPTISTE We can deal with him as we must. To let such short term obstacles deter you from such an offer would be terribly imprudent, no?

Baptiste takes a step towards Bunny, lowering his hands.

Cut to BLACK.

What do you say?

BAPTISTE

Int. JULIO’s car - day. From the dark, “Let the Sunshine In” by The Fifth Dimension. We come back to the car. The light is soft and dreamy. Everything moves slowly. Through the windshield, we see BUNNY and JULIO. Both of their faces are splattered with blood. BUNNY rests her head on her hand and stares straight ahead. JULIO’s eyes flicker back and forth between BUNNY and the road. Slowly, we see a small smile break out on BUNNY’s face. She begins to chuckle, but uses the hand she was leaning on to stifle it. JULIO catches on, and breaks out in a smile. JULIO reaches out and touches BUNNY’s hair tenderly.

Ext. Marin headlands - day

JULIO Te quiero, Coneja. (I love you, Bunny)

From a single location, we watch the car speeds off through the hills, in and out of our sight, until it disappears. Fade to black.

223

K AT E LY N L U Play or Script | Wissahickon High School, Ambler, PA

Where We’re Actually From ACT I Scene 1 The stage is split in two. On the left is a 1930s apartment, on the right is a presentday college dorm. Both sides of the stage are lit. Mei enters with a pen and paper, writing a letter to her fiancé. MEI Dear my love. Not a day goes by where I don’t miss you terribly. It’s been a long six months: me and your son in this apartment alone. It’s frightening sometimes. There’s yelling and gunshots and robberies. I can’t sleep most nights. It’s too loud—the sound of bullets cracking off bricks, the cries of people who quickly turn silent. Sometimes I jump at a shadow or the sound of the wind. I hate walking home alone. I wish you were here with me, with the both of us. But soon we’ll be married and start the rest of our lives together. (Mei keeps writing. Esther enters from right calling her mother on her cellphone.) ESTHER

Yes Mom, I know. (Pause.)

I know! Focus on my studies, don’t touch anyone, wash my hands between classes. Got it. (Pause.) Would you relax? There are like no cases right now. It can’t be that bad. Besides, the government will know how to stop a little virus. (Pause.) You’re ridiculous. We’re not going to have to quarantine. This isn’t the 1700s. We have medicine to stop this kind of thing. (Pause. Esther’s voice hardens, frustrated.) No Mom, I’m not going to be making out with any boy. I have to get going. My friends just walked in. (There are visibly no friends nearby.) Mom, mom. I have to go now. I love you. Bye. (Esther hangs up. She turns on the TV.) (Mei continues to talk aloud as she writes.) MEI

Your son is having a ball.

(Feels her pregnant stomach.) Always kicking and making his mother eat the fattiest things. I’m thinking about names. No more foreign names, I want to name him after someone famous. A famous American celebrity. Think about it. One of those glamorous actors. Like Charlie Chaplin! Have you seen his movies? He sings and dances, makes funny faces and always makes me smile. If we name him after someone famous, maybe they’ll treat him like their own. Imagine: being the parents of a true star and striped American. (Pause.) I know you wish we could be together right now. But we’ll get your papers soon. And we’ll be a real family. Charlie Chaplin and I love you and are waiting for you, always. With love, your loyal fiancé. (Mei begins to fold up the letter and slide it in the envelope.) (On the other side, Esther fiddles with the remote.) The first U.S. death from-

224

2020 NEWSREADER

(Switch channel.) President Trump says the coronavirus will disappear like a miracle. (Switch channel.) Wuhan China is still under complete lockdownDear God, can we get one piece of happy news? Bernie is on track to lose Super Tuesday.

ESTHER 2020 NEWSREADER

(Esther shuts off the TV. Her phone rings on the right side. Esther groans.) Mom, I told you! There’s nothing to worry about, I’m fine-

ESTHER

(Pause. Esther’s face falls, worried.) What? Hospitalized? Oh my god, is he okay? Does he have(Pause. Her tone changes.) What? Who did it? Yeah, yeah, I’m coming right away. (Esther exits running.) (On the other side, Mei stamps and kisses the envelope. She exits with it.) Lights fade. End of Scene 1. Scene 2 Only the right, modern day side is lit. Esther’s dorm room has become a hospital room. Grandpa lies in the bed, bruises on his face. Esther runs in. They hug tightly. ESTHER

Grandpa! Oh my god, are you okay? (Teasing.)

GRANDPA

Who knew all it takes is a beating for my granddaughter to come see me. ESTHER I’m sorry I haven’t seen you in so long! I promise I won’t ever leave your side again. GRANDPA Ah, don’t worry about me, just some kids who had nothing better to do. ESTHER

Why would they do that?

GRANDPA Oh, they’re just scared. Child, you look thinner. Are you eating enough? People don’t attack the elderly because they’re scared.

ESTHER

GRANDPA With all the money your parents are paying for that damn university, you’d think they’d give you a proper meal. When we get out of here, we’re going to get you some real food. Tell me, which sounds better: dumplings or soba noodles? Grandpa, seriously. How bad are you hurt?

ESTHER

GRANDPA Ah, don’t you worry, I’m fine. The nurse said I need to stay here overnight, but I think he’s just making drama up to get more money out of me. I will be out of here before you know it, child. Listen to him, Grandpa. He knows more than you do.

ESTHER GRANDPA

Impossible!

(Esther and Grandpa laugh. After a beat, Esther’s tone changes.) Did they arrest them? The ones who did it?

ESTHER

225

GRANDPA The cops said they got away. They said they’re looking into it as some hate crime. ESTHER

What could anyone hate you for? Oh, you know. What everyone hates each other for.

GRANDPA

(A beat. The right side darkens, and the left lights up. Mei is walking home from work through the 1930s streets. A neighbor gets in her way. As she looks down and tries to change directions, he gets in front of her again. Taunting.) MEI

I-I don’t want any trouble.

NEIGHBOR

Then don’t make any. I am just trying to get home like everyone else. Yeah, go home. Back to the shithole you came from.

MEI NEIGHBOR MEI

This is my home, sir.

NEIGHBOR

Like I’d believe a dirty thief like you.

MEI

I didn’t steal anything.

NEIGHBOR You’re all thieves. First our jobs, now you gotta steal our streets too? MEI (Gets out identification papers.) I have my papers with me. I was born here. (The neighbor takes the paper out of her hands, looks it over. He scoffs and spits on the note. He crumples it and tosses it behind him.) MEI

Sir, may I be on my way now?

NEIGHBOR You can pretend all you want. But let me be the first to tell you, everyone knows the truth. MEI

The truth?

NEIGHBOR Sweetheart, you’re no American. When people look at me, what do you think they see? Red blood. White face. Blue eyes. But you, you will always be the same shade of ugly yellow. (After a beat, he pushes her to the ground.) NEIGHBOR

Stay the fuck out of my way.

(He exits. Mei crawls to her papers. She uncrumples and puts them back in her purse.) (To her baby.)

MEI

I’m sorry I woke you up, Charlie Chaplin. It’s okay, Mama was just dancing. Go back to sleep. The more you sleep, the bigger you’ll grow. (The left darkens. The right lights up. Esther is still beside her bed-ridden Grandpa.) ESTHER Tell me a story, will you? Something happy. Something about your family. GRANDPA Oh, that’s easy. I have a great son, a lovely daughter-in-law. And a precious granddaughter. Who was your family before us? Like your parents.

226

ESTHER

GRANDPA

I never met them.

ESTHER What about Grandma? Tell me about Grandma. What was she like? GRANDPA Your grandmother was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. I thought the world of her. She had a kind heart. It amazed me how much she loved people, even when they weren’t so kind back to her. She always told me that love was the strongest thing in the world. I worked hard every day of my life so she didn’t have to. I wanted her to stay at home, spend time with the kids. (Teasing.)

ESTHER

How very sexist of you, Grandpa. GRANDPA Oh, give me a break, child. It was the 40s. We were all a little sexist back then. ESTHER

Excuses.

GRANDPA It’s a new age now, Esther. In five years, I’m going to visit you in your skyscraper office above the clouds, while your husband cleans and takes care of the kids back home. ESTHER I bet Grandma would have been shocked at how far we’ve come. (Esther looks at Grandpa’s bruised face.) I guess some things are still the same. GRANDPA

You win some, you lose some. (Pause.)

She had a strong will, your grandmother. It wasn’t easy, living in America. There was the Exclusion, the Depression, the war. Sometimes we thought it wasn’t worth it to stay. ESTHER

Why did you?

GRANDPA It was home. That’s special you know, finding a home. I hope that for you someday. ESTHER

I have a home. Our family house.

GRANDPA No, not that kind of home, stupid. The home you feel inside your heart. The one that makes everything a little less terrible and dark. That was what life was like with your grandmother. It didn’t matter where we were, we were right at home. ESTHER

I wish I could’ve met her.

GRANDPA Me too, child. She loved everybody. But I think she would’ve loved you the most. Lights fade. End of Scene 2. Scene 3 The right side is lit: Esther’s dorm. Esther and her classmate are studying together. CLASSMATE You know, I really want to find me from 6 months ago and punch him in the face for taking chemistry. ESTHER

What did you get for the mole ratio?

CLASSMATE

One-fourth.

(Esther takes a sip of water and chokes on it. She coughs into her arm.) (Teasing.)

CLASSMATE

Whoa, don’t be giving me the coronavirus now. 227

I just choked on my water.

ESTHER (She looks up and stares at him, incredulous.)

Esther, I was kidding. Who pissed in your cereal today?

ESTHER

Nobody. I got a ratio of five-eighths. I’m pretty sure it’s one-fourth.

CLASSMATE

CLASSMATE (Pause.)

Wait I have a question, where are you from again? ESTHER New Jersey. No, look, it’s asking about the sodium carbonate particles. CLASSMATE

No, like where you’re actually from?

(Esther pauses, puts down her pencil and looks up.) ESTHER

Yeah. I’m actually from New Jersey.

CLASSMATE Sorry, I meant where your family is from. Mine are from Scotland. ESTHER (Esther speaks cautiously.) My parents and grandparents are from here. But I guess my relatives before were from China. CLASSMATE

Huh. What part?

ESTHER Are you switching to a Chinese Studies major or something? CLASSMATE

I’m just curious, relax. You want to know if we’re from Wuhan.

ESTHER

CLASSMATE Esther, chill the fuck out. What, is it that time of the month or something? ESTHER

What? I am not-

CLASSMATE

Okay, you seriously need a smoke. Can we just- Let’s just finish the problem sets.

ESTHER

(They sit in silence for a beat.) CLASSMATE

So, are they?

Are they what? From, you know.

(Aggravated.)

ESTHER

CLASSMATE

ESTHER Jesus, it’s not a forbidden word, it’s a fucking city! And no, even though it’s none of your business, they’re not. CLASSMATE Esther, you don’t need to make something out of fucking nothing. I was just asking you where your family is from! ESTHER You think I’m stupid? That I don’t know why you’re asking? 228

CLASSMATE What? Do you think this is a race thing? Why does everyone insist on making every little thing about race? You made it about race in the first place!

ESTHER

(Beat.)

CLASSMATE I asked a perfectly normal question. I’m sorry it wasn’t “politically correct” and you got your fragile little feelings hurt. ESTHER It’s not about being politically correct, it’s about not being a dick. (He starts to collect his things to leave.) CLASSMATE Esther, do everyone a favor and get that chip off your shoulder. Maybe then, you’ll stop being such a raging bitch. (Classmate exits. The 2020 side darkens.) (The 1930s stage lights up. Mei is sitting at home writing another letter to her fiancé. She’s shaken up after the confrontation.) MEI You know, my love, I’ve been thinking about the dream lately. Our dream. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to move here. How excited I was to finally start our lives. Well, I don’t know if I believe in that anymore. The dream. To tell you the truth, I’ve never felt more alone. (Pause.) I don’t know if I want to stay here anymore. I don’t belong. I wish I did, but I’ve been fooling myself for too long. I don’t. My family fought tooth and nail to get here. To get me born here. If only it wasn’t a lie. (Pause.) What am I, my love? I’m not American. I’m not Chinese. But I can’t just be nothing. Please, tell me what I am. I honestly have no idea anymore. Lights fade. End of Act I. ACT II Scene 1 Some time has passed. Both the 30s and modern stages are lit. Mei is listening to the radio in her apartment, and Esther is watching the television in her dorm. The newsreaders read their lines quickly, overlapping a little. 2020 NEWSREADER President Trump crosses out “Coronavirus”, replaces it with “Chinese virus.” His reason: it’s where it comes from. 1930 NEWSREADER The Yellow Peril has erupted throughout America. The people have a singular message: the Chinese Must Go. 2020 NEWSREADER Anti-Asian attacks are surging. One of the assailants who beat Chinese student Jonathan Mok was quoted as saying “I don’t want your coronavirus in my country.” 1930 NEWSREADER The Chinese Exclusion Act, the first immigration law that banned an entire ethnicity, was signed into effect in 1882, nearly 60 years ago. 2020 NEWSREADER One Instagram user commented that he and his friends would start a shooting in Chinatown because, quote “that’s the only way we can destroy the pandemic.” 1930 NEWSREADER In the Rock Springs Massacre, white miners rushed into Chinatown, robbing homes and killing the Chinese who took their jobs. Is this a case where violence is justified? 2020 NEWSREADER In one telling video, a Washington man shoves and spits on an Asian couple. He tells them, quote “It’s all your fault.” 1930 NEWSREADER They’re taking over our country-

2020 NEWSREADER Video of a Chinese woman eating bat soup goes viral-

1930 NEWSREADER (The lines step away from reality for a moment to echo past scenes.) Birth doesn’t make you, blood doesWhere are you actually from?

2020 NEWSREADER

229

2020 NEWSREADER

1930 NEWSREADER

Stay the fuck out of my way

Raging bitch.

(Esther shuts off the television and leaves. Mei exits the room with the radio still running.) 1930 NEWSREADER In more important news, the Los Angeles Angels are playing the San Francisco Seals tomorrow. It will be a beautiful day with sunny skies, so go outside and watch some American baseball! Lights fade. End of Scene 1. Scene 2 The modern side lights up. Grandpa lies in his hospital bed, Esther at his bedside. ESTHER

What is happening around us?

GRANDPA We’re in a hospital. Around us, there’s nurses everywhere ripping people off. ESTHER You were attacked. So many people are being attacked. And not by the virus. (Grandpa sighs.)

GRANDPA

I see you’ve met the world. You know, she’s nicer than she seems at first. ESTHER

What’s nice about it?

GRANDPA You see, child. I’ve seen America grow up. You should’ve seen her in the 40s. She was kicking out the Chinese left and right. ESTHER Yeah, and now they’re beating and spitting on us. Amazing growth. GRANDPA You learn eventually that there’s an ugly side to everything. Things were a lot worse in my day. ESTHER It’s not enough. It’s just not. The actions may not be as bad, but it’s the same sentiment. GRANDPA

What sentiment is that?

ESTHER

That we’re not welcome here. (Pause.) It’s not just us either. I watch the news all the time.

GRANDPA You haven’t seen just how much people’s minds have openedESTHER (Esther gestures to Grandpa’s bruises.) Really? Because this doesn’t look like anything’s changed! GRANDPA Child, I remember when the Exclusion Act got repealed in 1943, I broke down into tears. Because I knew then that America, she was trying. I forgave her. I’m still forgiving her. Grandpa, didn’t they deport your family?

ESTHER

GRANDPA Yes, I hated them for it, too. But you haven’t seen the world for as long as I have. Every generation, they start as teenagers like you, with opinions. Then they become adults, who take action. It’s a magical thing, seeing a new America every ten years. ESTHER I don’t think it’s a new America. People are quieter about it now. But they still hate us. It’s the same thing just with a better disguise. GRANDPA But don’t you think if it gets quiet enough, it’ll disappear altogether?

230

ESTHER

I can’t help being angry about it.

GRANDPA

Good thing it’s your turn then.

ESTHER

To do what? What do you think? To show the world.

GRANDPA

Lights fade. End of Scene 2. Scene 3 The 1930s side is lit. A few months have passed with Mei. She has married her fiancé from China, and they have both settled down in the U.S. Mei enters her home holding a newborn Charlie in her arms. Look Charlie, Mama has brought you home.

MEI

(Pause.) This is where you’re going to grow up. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives here. Well, not here as in this apartment. It’s kind of a dump, isn’t it? But here, as in America. It will be hard, no doubt. But nothing good ever comes easy. And we’re strong people, Charlie. You hear me? (Pause.) You’ve really shown me I could be happy here. Oh, I almost forgot! I got you a gift! (Mei takes out a bowler hat.) It’s the hat Charlie Chaplin wears. It’s a little big for you now, but you’ll grow into it. I’ll put you in singing and dance lessons, even if you despise them. (Pause.) I love you so much. Maybe more than I love your father, but don’t tell him that. Your father loves you too. It took a lot for him to come over here in the Exclusion, but now we can finally be together. Oh, I can already tell you’re going to be one handsome boy. You’ll knock ‘em dead. (There’s a pounding on the door. There’s someone here.)

Who is it?

(Frightened.)

MEI

IMMIGRATION AGENT

Open the door. Who are you? My husband will be home soon!

MEI

IMMIGRATION AGENT He’s in our custody, ma’am. Open the door, or we will open it for you. (Mei grabs her identification papers and runs to the door. The immigration agent enters.) IMMIGRATION AGENT Were you aware that your husband had falsified papers claiming citizenship to the United States of America? Sir, I was not, I- Where did you even hear that?

MEI

IMMIGRATION AGENT We received complaints about a foreign Chinese man. Where were you born? MEI (Hands over identification papers.) Right here in California. I’m American. Don’t you hear? I have no accent, sir. IMMIGRATION AGENT Ma’am, do you know what the Expatriation Act of 1907 is? Sir, please just listen to me. I can explain-

MEI

231

IMMIGRATION AGENT (He raises his voice over her.) It means, if an American woman marries a foreign man, she takes his nationality. You are a Chinese woman. Nothing American about you. I need you to come with me. (He takes her by the arm. The 1930s scene freezes and darkens. The right side lights up. Esther is sitting in her dorm.) ESTHER (Her cellphone rings in her pocket, she picks up.) Hey, mom. (Pause. She’s horror-stricken.) No. No, he’s not. (Pause.) A stroke? Oh my god. Is he still alive? (Pause. She starts to yell.) Answer me, god dammit! (The 2020 side darkens. The 1930s side lights up.) MEI (Mei starts to sob. The immigration agent tries to take the baby out of her arms, as Charlie starts crying. She holds on tight.) Please, sir. He’s my newborn son! He’s American-born, I can’t leave him. Don’t separate him from his mother! IMMIGRATION AGENT

Ma’am, let go of the child. (In hysterics.)

MEI

Not my Charlie. No, no, no! (The immigration agent rips them apart. He puts the baby down and takes Mei off the stage. The baby sits alone in its bassinet, crying.) (The 1930s side darkens. Modern day lights up. Esther sits in the hospital waiting room.) (In tears.)

ESTHER

Grandpa. Please be okay. Please. I can’t lose you. NURSE

Are you related to Charlie?

ESTHER Yes, I’m his granddaughter. Oh my god, tell me he’s alright. NURSE

His condition is critical but stable.

NURSE ESTHER

He suffered a hemorrhagic stroke, where there’s a ruptured blood vessel in the brain, which was likely brought on by his concussion.

We need to take him into surgery to repair the vessel.

Oh my god.

NURSE ESTHER

Could he die from the surgery?

NURSE (The nurse looks hesitant. She knows Esther won’t like the answer.) He’s in his 80s, right? Yes, that’s not going to affect anything-

ESTHER

NURSE At that age, any surgical procedure is a risk. I promise we’re doing our best. 232

(The nurse exits.) ESTHER (Esther paces around the room.) Fuck. (Esther falls to her knees and starts crying again.) He didn’t deserve this. He deserved the world. (The 1930s stage lights up, as the modern stage is still lit. Mei is shoved into a detention center. She’s inconsolable.) (Sobbing.)

MEI

Charlie, my Charlie. He’s gone. (The two women sit side by side, heartbroken. Left on the floor in the face of a world that has stolen everything from them.) Lights fade. End of Act II. ACT III Scene 1 The 2020 stage lights up. Esther is at her family home, digging through their old belongings. ESTHER (Esther stands up and kicks the box over.) God, I can’t stand it! Sitting here while my grandfather is fighting for his life. (At the bottom of the box, Esther discovers an aged piece of paper. She looks at it closer.) What the... (Reading.)

ESTHER

“Dear my love. My heart aches to be with you again.” Ugh, that’s so sappy. (Pause. Her tone changes.) Wait, Grandma? (She goes back to reading.) “Our son Charlie will enter the world soon, I can feel it.” (Looks at the date.) From...1935. Mei Li. (Esther smiles, maybe for the first time in days.) My great-grandmother. Lights fade. End of Scene 1. Scene 2 The 2020 stage lights up. Grandpa lies sleeping on the hospital bed. Esther walks in like she’s afraid of what she’ll see. She stares at his unmoving body for a beat. She walks over to him and lays a hand on his forehead. GRANDPA

Jesus, stupid. I’m not dead. Yet.

ESTHER (Esther yelps and smiles. She hugs him, starting to tear up.) Grandpa! You scared me half to death. Child, I was halfway to death. Grandpa!

GRANDPA ESTHER

233

GRANDPA

Sorry. Seriously, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.

ESTHER

GRANDPA You know, I’m getting up there. I’ve lived for many years. My life has been good to me. If it did end, I still wouldn’t change a thing. ESTHER I know that. I’m just selfish, I guess. I’m glad to get more time with you. (Pause.) I was digging through the attic the other day. I found this. (She hands him the letters.) GRANDPA I’m 85 years old, and I just had a stroke. I can’t read for shit. Right, sorry. I think it’s from your mother. My mother? That’s impossible, she was deported.

ESTHER GRANDPA

ESTHER She wrote it to your father in 1935. I guess she never got to send it. Want me to read it to you? (Grandpa nods.) (Reading.)

ESTHER

“Dear, my love. My heart aches to be with you again. I’m glad you got the papers. I hope you have a safe voyage on the sea. Make sure to be careful. Don’t be found out. Our son Charlie will enter the world soon, I can feel it. Sometimes, he’ll just keep on kicking me and won’t stop. I have to apologize for my last letter, I was just so upset. I was not wrong, though. I will never be welcome in this country. Not in this lifetime. But Charlie just might. Charlie’s children even more so. And their children. I guess that’s why we stay. It’s for them. For their chance to be Americans. It’s our responsibility.” (Esther pauses.) “I will meet you at the port. Love, Mei Li.” GRANDPA (Grandpa sniffles, nearly brought to tears.) She had a way with words, my mother. I’m sorry you were separated from them. I stayed, didn’t I? And now we have you.

ESTHER GRANDPA

(Esther hugs him tightly.) Are you ready to go home? I am home.

ESTHER Lights fade. End of play.

234

235

ALICE LUBIN-MEYER Photography | Lawrence High School, Lawrence, KS

The Joke Shop Digital photography 2020 236

Days of Last Summer Digital photography and pencil drawing 2020 237

SOPHIE MAIN Poetry | Nightingale-Bamford School, New York, NY

In Seventh Grade, I Video Chat Strangers With The Camera Turned Off & then one day I turn it on

so I can learn to live as a girl,

seeing & being seen, watching

their chests heave under bright t-shirts

or rippling skin. We do it at sleepovers, five new bodies laced on the floor of someone’s room, pink or white

with stuffed animals shoved under the bed. It’s fun to watch which girls have given

handjobs. They don’t scream at the sight, they merely frown, pull worn blankets

to their chins & wait. We stay long enough to see each zipper fall, again & again the sound of men unraveling metal, pulses pushing at the worn seams of rayon dresses we bought

with saved up twenties from babysitting while they fumble with their headsets lmao fuck how old are you guys

the quickening of breath escapes

each chapped lip until someone clicks stop & we laugh into each other as if somehow it will make us clean of the wanting.

238

The Conspiracy Theorists Are Winning The republic has come to grips with itself & the fires. Today is today & tomorrow

& knew it—how it happened to us, where all the plenty went,

will be different. In this economy, we think worthwhile thoughts

would you believe me? I fogged up the windowglass,

& buy cars. The bees have all gone to plan their funerals, readying

traced maps & constellations, connected freedom to doomsday

bite-sized caskets & garlands to line the empty pews. To celebrate

with a sinuous line. At night, the broadcast closes like this: two boys

the rising of the sun, I profess my successful humanity: clean the sink,

on a boat & the boat is burning. One starts the work of preparation—

save the excess grease from the pan. I make my bed, take calls, etc.

furling the sails, readying the pyre. The other sings until he’s dead.

What happened to meaning & other precious metals? It’s not time to worry yet. There are still people in the mines & therefore progress. The FDA has placed multiple regulations on faith in light of all that has happened & hasn’t happened, second comings & debt forgiveness & the like. Though every dam in every river shatters itself in protest, this is no longer radical. Nothing is radical. It is moving too slowly to survive. The doctors on TV cite a lack of closeness in the American household as the number one cause of heart attacks behind flash floods & all eruptions of the self— but these are things we do not have time for. To live in this now, one must decide to accept myth or become it. Learn to reroute the brain, pack a bag of joy & stash it under the bed. When we say we are fine we mean alive & most things agree, flowers nodding their wilted heads, fish swimming eagerly to nowhere. If I were to tell you I got in a cab this morning 239

GABRIELLE MANION Design Arts | Oakland School for the Arts, Oakland, CA

The Story Behind Our Hair Brocade, taffeta, organza, stretch velvet and webbing belt 2019 240

The Story Behind Our Hair Brocade, taffeta, organza, stretch velvet and webbing belt 2019 241

T R AV I S M A N N Photography | Greenhill School, Addison, TX

Reflecting Digital photography 2019 242

Swept Away Digital photography 2020 243

ADAR MARCUS

Play or Script | Repertory Company High School for Theatre Arts, New York, NY

Our America Cast of Characters: ELEANOR STANTON - Senior Senator from New York and chair of the Judiciary Committee, an establishment liberal who is extremely partisan but wants to keep the US population from being segregated along party lines. TERRY WHITE - Junior Senator from South Carolina and ranking member of the Judiciary Committee, a radical conservative who wants to divide the country by party in order to facilitate his coded agenda of racial division. KELLY ROBERTS - Junior Senator from California and member of the Judiciary Committee, a progressive outsider who believes that party line segregation is the only way to stop fighting and pass legislation. MELISSA CORTEZ - Senior Senator from Maine and member of the Judiciary Committee, a moderate who remains firmly loyal to Stanton. Her parents emigrated to the country illegally before she was born. WANDA LITTLE - Junior Senator from Ohio and member of the Judiciary Committee, a crucial swing vote on the segregation measure. Setting: The Senate Judiciary Chamber, over Zoom conference call, during the final minutes of committee debate before a motion to resegregate the country is either tabled or brought to the Senate floor for a vote. The bill has narrowly passed the house, and passage now will send it to the desk of the president, who has vowed to sign it into law. SCENE ONE The Senators on the Judiciary Committee are seated in their respective home offices, on a zoom video conference. The hosts of the call are the committee’s chair and ranking members, Senators Stanton and White respectively. Also present from the committee are Senators Roberts, Cortez and Little. They appear disheveled and riled up from hours of debate. WHITE

Senator you’re not listening to me-

CORTEZ We can’t do this. it’s that simple. I don’t understand why we’re still discussing this... ROBERTS We’re discussing this because it’s the only option, just look at what’s happeningLITTLE

Listen, Stanton-

Senator Stanton wipes her brow and adjusts her camera, evidently frustrated. STANTON Quiet, all of you! We’re still not getting anywhere here. Senator Little, time check? Little glances at her watch. LITTLE

Eight minutes Senator.

STANTON Eight minutes left people. Now that means we’ve been on this call for three hours and fifty two minutes, and tell me what we’ve concluded. The senators are silent. Anyone? Roberts? Cortez?

STANTON

CORTEZ Well I’m with Senator Stanton. This doesn’t deserve to go to the Senate floor. WHITE You of all people, Melissa, should see. There are some folks in this country that just don’t give a damn, and this is the only way. Quiet! Someone please recap for me what we’re doing.

244

STANTON

ROBERTS Senator, we’re reviewing H.R. 106 the American Partition Act of 2044 passed by the House on Tuesday night. If the bill passes, it would put up two walls dividing the coasts from the middle of the country and end all contact between the Democrats on one side and the Republicans on the other. Liberals could go about our business and the conservatives could go about theirs. It would end the partisan gridlock we’ve had for years since the pandemic started, but more importantly it would stop our civilians from killing each other on the streets. It’s the only solution. STANTON I’ll say what I’ve said for hours now. We can’t bring this to the floor. WHITE

We very well can.

STANTON No, we can’t. Look, this bill betrays every institution established in this country. Listen, I get it, we’ve been gridlocked and quarantined on and off for years, no one can agree andROBERTS -Right now there are people rioting and killing each other on every other street corner. STANTON Listen I get it, believe me I do. But you can’t just... put up a fence between Virginia and Kentucky because you don’t want to deal with your problems. It’s not the American way. ROBERTS Cut the stump speech crap Stanton, you and I both know it’s way past that time. There is no American way anymore. Those days are behind us. (preaching)

STANTON

Senator there is an American way. The American way is to keep this union together and fight for what’s right. Even when it seems impossible. WHITE You know what, just shove that Lincoln garbage up your ass, it’s the last thing we need right now. The American way is to give this country back to the people who deserve to be here. (referring to White)

CORTEZ

What do you know about the American way? I know more than your people do, that’s for sure. What do you mean my people?

WHITE CORTEZ

WHITE Your people. Aliens. The ones standing there closing off the world for the rest of us. The only reason we’re in this mess in the first place. You know that’s not true, how dare you-

CORTEZ

WHITE -It’s our America Melissa, I can dare whatever I damn well like. Christ, there are more of you than there are of us now. CORTEZ So that’s what this is really about isn’t it. You want to rip this country in half because you think this country only belongs to you. You know, it’s like you just forget.

WHITE

CORTEZ Forget what? Forget that outside of your segregated mansion in the middle of god knows where this virus is still wreaking havoc? Forget that my mother hasForget that we were the ones who built this damn country! Why, you motherf-

WHITE CORTEZ

Stanton mutes Cortez and White in an attempt to interrupt this exchange. Alright, enough!

STANTON

WHITE What, trying to hide the poor Hispanic girl in your big white arms? Just because you’re the chair of this committee doesn’t mean you get to silence us whenever you please.

245

STANTON Yeah it’s a crying shame you’re not the one in charge, isn’t it? I swear in the name of Christ/Almighty!

WHITE

STANTON mutes everyone in the room. STANTON /Enough! I won’t do any more of this. All of you, keep your heads together! There is a brief silence. STANTON

Little, time check?

LITTLE

Four minutes, Senator.

STANTON

Right, as I was saying beforeNow wait just a minute. I never finished-

WHITE STANTON

Oh you’ve said plenty already-

LITTLE

You know what Stanton? Don’t you you know what me, you know he’s wrong.

STANTON

LITTLE Aw congratulations would you like a medal? As usual one person in this room is way out of his league. But this crisis? This is your problem. Would you just pick a side, Wanda? This doesn’t help us.

ROBERTS STANTON

Hold on Kelly(to LITTLE) -Now what the hell are you talking about?

LITTLE Senator do you remember the bipartisan virus relief bill that failed the senate ten years ago? Virus relief bill? Well you should. Why? Because you’re the reason it didn’t pass. Listen, I don’t know what this ridiculous exercise is, but-Three minutes Senator. Please hear me out. We have toSenator, let her speak. Fine. Go ahead.

STANTON LITTLE STANTON LITTLE STANTON LITTLE STANTON CORTEZ STANTON

LITTLE Ten years ago when you were the Senate Majority Leader, the House passed a bipartisan virus relief bill. If it passed the Senate it would have funded extra virus relief for low income families and minorities through at least 2044- that’s this year Senator. But you blocked it from even reaching a vote on the Senate floor.

246

That doesn’t have anything to do with this.

STANTON ROBERTS

Yes it does.

STANTON

Oh now you’re just wasting my time.

LITTLE Fine, tell me why you prevented that bill from moving on and we will too. STANTON

Well, at the time-

LITTLE

Why?

STANTON

It was just-

ROBERTS

Why?

Stanton, clearly uncomfortable, begins to get up from her seat. LITTLE Senator there’s nowhere for you to go. Sit down and look at me. Stanton ignores her request. LITTLE That bill would have saved thousands of lives. That bill would have protected tens of thousands of families. That bill would have kept your colleague Melissa’s mother from dying. Stanton is struck by this. She glances over at Cortez, ashamed. It is obvious that she knew about this already. She meets her eyes but says nothing. LITTLE Senator you had no reason to block that bill. But you did it anyway. You did it because you knew that the other guys were voting for it too. Am I correct? Stanton looks down, declining to respond. ROBERTS

Answer her, Senator.

STANTON

No.

LITTLE

So then why did you do it?

STANTON

Because, at the time it‚ it made sense.

It made sense?

(asked rhetorically)

LITTLE

Stanton nods tentatively. For a moment there is silence while the Senators think. Senator Roberts, do you think it made sense?

LITTLE

Roberts shakes her head. Senator White?

LITTLE White shakes his head and clutches the American flag pinned to his lapel.

Senator Cortez?

LITTLE Cortez shakes her head then looks at Stanton apologetically.

LITTLE Stanton, wake up. No one here thinks tabling that measure made any sense at all. So tell me. Why did you really do it?

247

STANTON

I‚ was up for re-election in November.

LITTLE

Go on.

STANTON I was up for re-election and I was polling behind my opponent. And I knew that the people in my constituency weren’t looking at what was in the bill. They were looking at who supported it. And then my aides told me that if it passed they’d think I betrayed my party and my numbers would drop even further, and that would be it for my career. And I knew that everything in that bill was a step in the right direction. But when it came to the floor, I couldn’t stand the thought of losing my seat because of it. So I blocked it from ever reaching a vote, and that was that. LITTLE But Senator that wasn’t that. Because it gets worse. You spent your time packing the courts with partisan judges. Anytime a judge that you didn’t agree with was up for confirmation you blocked the entire process. Because of that the courts weren’t there to protect the people from injustice, and extremists were allowed to parade down the streets with their signs and torches. Beyond that, the virus continued to spread, because in your undying quest for power you crushed any political effort to truly stop it. So people on both sides started rioting, because they had no other options, and ten years later the division of the entire country along party lines is the consequence. You’re standing here preaching about keeping the union together, but Senator you’ve spent your entire career breaking it. And you’re blaming all of us for stalling the entire time, but the fact is you’ve been stalling for the last twenty years. So in three minutes, I don’t know how I’m gonna vote on this absurd piece of legislation. But I do know that whatever I choose, it won’t actually matter. Not because I don’t want it to, but because this crisis we’re in? It’s unfixable. It’s unfixable because of racist pieces of garbage who find their way into power. It’s unfixable because we’ve been given three hours to fix a problem that’s been brewing for three hundred years. It’s unfixable because we’re trying to fix this problem with the same broken system that caused it in the first place. And that system is broken because of you. Stanton stands up from her seat and rubs her forehead. I need a moment. Cortez? Breakout room?

STANTON

Remorse laces Stanton’s eyes. CORTEZ

Yes Senator.

LITTLE

Two minutes Stanton!

Cortez and Stanton pull into a breakout room. Melissa I don’t even know where to start. You don’t have to.

STANTON CORTEZ

STANTON I knew about your mother. I knew your mother was predisposed, I knew she was poor, but I did it anyway. And‚ I’m sorry. I know that can’t make it better, butCORTEZ It’s not about my mother, Eleanor. This problem is much bigger. One look outside your window should tell you that. So then... I really was as bad as she said I was. Yes. I assume you’re gonna vote in favor then? INo. No need to respond, I understand.

STANTON CORTEZ STANTON CORTEZ STANTON

CORTEZ No Eleanor you’re not listening to me. I believe in this union. I’m still voting with you. But I can’t guarantee that it’ll be enough. What do you mean?

STANTON

CORTEZ Well Roberts is obviously voting yes. White is insane and he was a foregone conclusion before we even started. And Little is going to hold her cards to her chest until the last possible moment. STANTON So then what do I do Liz? What if it passes? Then what do I do?

248

CORTEZ

I guess that depends.

STANTON

Depends on...

CORTEZ Can you put aside partisanship, your personal feuds, your next election, all of it? Just this once, are you willing? Stanton is silent for a moment. STANTON

Yes.

CORTEZ Then here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to swallow your pride, call that vote, and take your defeat if it comes. And then it’s gonna go to the full chamber, and for the first time in your career you’re going to have to defend our America on the Senate floor. In front of everyone. You shot this gun Eleanor, and now it’s your bullet to swallow. Stanton is about to rejoin the others, but Cortez interrupts her. CORTEZ

Eleanor?

STANTON

Yes?

CORTEZ

You can handle this.

Stanton and Cortez rejoin the rest of the group. LITTLE

Time is up Senator.

ROBERTS The vote will now commence. Just a brief reminder that you are voting on whether to advance H.R. 106 the American Partition Act of 2044 to the Senate floor for a full chamber vote. We will proceed in order by committee rank. Committee Chair Stanton? STANTON

No.

ROBERTS

Ranking member White?

WHITE

Yes.

ROBERTS

Senator Cortez?

CORTEZ

No. I, Senator Roberts vote yes. And Senator Little?

ROBERTS

Little takes a suspenseful pause as Stanton holds her breath. Yes.

LITTLE Stanton takes a moment to process her fate.

Little, the final tally?

ROBERTS

LITTLE The final vote is three in favor, two against. The measure passes and will move to the Senate floor for a full chamber vote. Senator Stanton, do you wish to bring forth any motions of objection? Stanton looks at Cortez, then turns to Little decisively. No.

STANTON

SCENE TWO The Senators are now in a zoom meeting in front of the entire Senate Chamber. Stanton, spotlighted as the speaker, begins to talk.

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STANTON Senators, I must be frank. Today, we are assembled to vote on one of the most important pieces of legislation in our country’s long legacy, at one of the most crucial and high stakes moments in our history. While you may likely have already made up your minds, I urge you to consider the weight of the decision you make now. The passage of this bill will set up the immediate construction of two walls along the length of this country, aligning where the State of Virginia meets the State of Kentucky in the east, and where the state of Nevada meets the State of Utah in the West. As you look around at representatives from all corners of this nation, know that with a yes vote, you wield the power to separate them for a lifetime and more. With a no vote, the road to recovery may be long and difficult. Many of you have rightfully pointed out that we may in fact never get there. But by passing this legislation we deny ourselves the opportunity to even try. Senator Roberts, the procedure for the vote on the floor? ROBERTS This will be a two minute vote on the passage of H.R. 106 the American Partition Act of 2044. When your ballot appears on your respective devices, you will select either yes, to cast a vote supporting the measure, or no, to vote against it. Your time to cast your digital ballots begins now. (The audience members vote via an online poll that presents their options as Stanton watches anxiously from her podium. The other Senators watch nervously as the votes are counted, displayed on a live poll. Roberts or another designated actor calls out the result of the vote. One of two ending scenarios are then carried out, depending on how the audience votes.) ENDING 1- THE RESOLUTION PASSES STANTON My dear colleagues, this is a regrettably dark moment for America. We have been mired in partisanship, fighting, and illness for years now. On our streets protesters have caused a degree of civil unrest unlike anything that has yet been seen in our history. But still I believe that we today have chosen the wrong path. With this vote, we have chosen to divorce our country from any hope of becoming the perfect union that Lincoln fought so hard to protect all those years ago. And now I must speak to you in its aftermath. Not to admonish you for your decision, but to claim responsibility. I spent my time as Senate Majority Leader destroying any chance of bipartisan cooperation. And it is my personal regret that only now do I see the consequences. I was voted into office to protect our country’s institutions for its citizens. But I have failed. And that is why today I stand before you... and announce my immediate resignation from this chamber. The Senators gasp. An unidentified individual begins banging on Stanton’s door, the noise growing progressively louder. It is my deepest regret that I could not have done more to protect what we could have saved, and I apologize to you and all of our America for- Hello? Who’s there? Can I help you? Stanton gets up as her door is broken open. A single gunshot rings out as the call hangs up. The screen lingers black. THE END ENDING 2- THE RESOLUTION FAILS STANTON Senators, today, I would like to thank you. We have been mired in partisanship, fighting, and illness for years now. On our streets protesters have caused a degree of civil unrest unlike anything that has yet been seen in our history. But today you have chosen the righteous path. By voting against this permanent and dooming measure, you have given us a new lease on the union that Lincoln fought to protect all those years ago. That is not to say, though, that our work here is done. Quite the contrary, in fact. I recognize that many of my actions in my years as leader of this chamber contributed to our current precarious position, and that is why today I stand here and make a vow to you. I make a vow that from now on that, no matter how arduous this journey of recovery may be, that we will continue on a path of bipartisanship and cooperation, and introduce legislation to this chamber that helps to bring our America back toAn unidentified individual begins banging on Stanton’s door, the noise growing progressively louder. Hello? Who’s there? Can I help you? Stanton gets up as her door is broken open. A single gunshot rings out as the call hangs up. The screen lingers black. THE END

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ALE XIA MAR R IOT T Photography | Waltham High School, Waltham, MA

Self Digital photography 2019 252

Reflection Digital photography 2020 253

KRISTINA MARSHALL Visual Arts | Lovejoy High School, Lucas, TX

Confession Pen with gold leaf on gouache bound in stained and burned wood 2020 254

Immortal Pen with gold leaf on gouache bound in stained and burned wood 2020 255

IFE MARTIN

Spoken Word | West Bloomfield High School, West Bloomfield, MI

Things My Parents Should Have Named Me Instead of Ife Sweet For she melts on your tongue like candy and knows when to bite her own Chocolate, Dark Her eyes hold a richness that she can’t even comprehend, smooth and complex, few take the time to understand, She is Exotic Her beauty betrays her words, she creates oceans and islands in case she wants to get lost, gold waiting to be mined, flavors unknown Oshun Name her Oshun, a goddess amongst men, she’ll drown in her name, let the salt sting her eyes, she’s suffocated by air, let her join the spirits that are lost to time, call her Culture The rhythm of the djembe, the sway of her hips, the colors of the dashiki painted onto the setting sky, she’s as dark as her mother’s soil, haunt her with the name of something she will never know Lost She’s a restless soul, she longs to touch things she can’t see and fill places that are empty, stuck in the labyrinth of her mind, her voice echoes in an empty sky, she is Fire Watch flames curl from her tongue, her burnt fingertips are blank pages that can’t be filled with your words, she is Everlasting She burns amidst the storm, she keeps you warm when wool fails you, you put her out when you’re done, name her Naivety Delicate, Innocent, Dangerous, she’ll build homes out of your lies, get lost in your eyes, and she won’t realize when her world is crumbling down, She’ll believe the monsters because they said it’s just a farce, she’ll wash your hands clean, dear Pilate, and let the dagger adorn her chest at the promise of forever, at the promise of love Name her Love Don’t be subtle, Ife, Origin: Yoruba, Meaning: Love Name her medicine and poison, joy and heartbreak, beauty and chaos, sun and moon But name her something drenched in your stench Name her something that will bring her home

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Chocolate Ice Cream I tug on my worn black jeans that hug my thighs like an old friend But the seams still dig into my skin A reminder that I’m the one that doesn’t fit So, I never really understand the appeal. As I sit, they melt like chocolate ice cream on a hot summer day I watch the flies buzz around longing for its sticky sweetness I never really understood the appeal In their eyes, it must be prize game Another head on the wall I shrink into myself hoping to distract them with the flick of my mane And the chirp of my laugh They laugh as they inch closer I feel the walls close around me Does no one see this? I breathe Oh. It was a joke

I never understood the appeal Of drowning I heard it was the most peaceful death though I mean you fight and fight and fight until you just Let go The seams of my worn black jeans finally rip The ice cream is now an unrecognizable pool on the street My body collapses Am I fighting? Or am I just letting go?

I never really understood the appeal But I just smile and laugh it off I tattoo “It’s just a joke” into my inner thigh in case I forget They’ll like you better if you don’t resist Try not to flinch You’ll realize in time that they lied when they said your body is yours Confidence is like a medal of honor you have to earn it Until then you are like a creature in a zoo on display Only beckoned to pet and play This isn’t a game I want to play This isn’t a game You think it’s a game I lost Be prepared I say When they come and break off a piece, your bar of chocolate The idea stays tempting their taste buds They’re tempted It’s your fault You’re sweet Dark You’re bitter Don’t be bitter They just fetishize your kind Exotic You have a foreign taste that burns your native tongue You are from somewhere in between two homes that were never yours You belong to no one and everyone Anyone but yourself It doesn’t matter if I don’t understand the appeal I’m bound to a 400-year-old contract that says it’s ok for them to dig into my skin And buzz about my sweetness And hunt me like prey I can’t pray about such trivial things It’s just a joke It’s not that serious I gag at the thought of that phrase A wave of uncomfortable makes me feel like I’m drowning My brain screams to breathe but I can’t cause I’m drowning

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CHAR LOT T E M CCO M BS Play or Script | Fayetteville High School, Fayetteville, AR

Zoo INT. ST. ANN’S - MORNING CECILIA and ALAN are inside the church, sitting in a pew, with an awkward distance between them. CECILIA is already near tears. We follow her gaze as she looks at the holder on the back of the pew in front of her. A tattered hymnal lies there. She looks at the Votive candles, by the side-altar. One is lit, flickering. She looks at ALAN, moving farther away from him. As she does so, she watches the candle’s flame flicker from her movement. Offscreen, FATHER ANDREW is behind them. FATHER (O.S.)

Hello. Cecilia?

CECILIA (turning around)

Yes.

FATHER (O.S.)

You both can come in now. INT. VESTRY - MORNING

FATHER ANDREW sits, with CECILIA and ALAN across from him, but he’s only looking at CECILIA. CECILIA wears her fingerless gloves. They sit uncomfortably far apart. So.

CECILIA says nothing.

So.

Cecilia?

FATHER ALAN

FATHER

CECILIA looks up at him, not saying a word. FATHER Have you and Alan ever … talked about this? No. Yes.

CECILIA ALAN

ALAN Well…I told you…I told her what I wanted. What I want. Which is what?

Beat.

FATHER

ALAN I told her that I want to convert to Catholicism. FATHER I remember that … I told you to talk to her about everything you said to me. On that night that we talked, when you were so upset No, yeah, I know.

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ALAN

FATHER I told you to talk to her about that before you talked to her about your desire to join the Yeah.

ALAN

FATHER So why didn’t you do that?

Beat…

ALAN Because I wasn’t gonna do that.

You need to.

FATHER

Beat. ALAN looks away, like a child being scolded. FATHER Alan. … You need to tell Cecilia what you told me. Andrew -

ALAN

FATHER Please don’t call me that. …sorry.

ALAN

CECILIA laughs, suddenly. It catches the other two off-guard. (annoyed) What? Nothing. No, what?

ALAN

CECILIA ALAN

CECILIA Why are you yelling at me -

ALAN I’m not, tell me why you just laughed.

CECILIA Because … you just called a priest Andrew. That’s what you just called a priest. You need to listen to yourself - it’s completely absurd. ALAN I don’t know, Cecilia -

CECILIA That’s not even his real name, probably.

ALAN and CECILIA look at FATHER ANDREW. It’s … not. Cecilia, come on-

Beat.

FATHER ALAN

FATHER Alan. You need to tell Cecilia what you told me. ALAN I told … the Father.

CECILIA laughs again. ALAN’s pissed.

ALAN That - I feel like I’m not going anywhere. I know you make fun of me, but I did take those classes in college, and I loved them, and I - I love the idea of feeling … not insignificant.

CECILIA scoffs. ALAN ignores her.

ALAN And that’s why I want to convert.

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Join. What?

CECILIA ALAN

CECILIA You’re not converting if there wasn’t anything to begin with.

ALAN That’s not - that’s not true - you can use the word convert even if FATHER What about your job?

ALAN (quietly) And I told him that … I hate my job.

CECILIA snickers - ALAN glares at her. What.

You’re a lawyer.

ALAN CECILIA

ALAN What - what does that mean?

CECILIA Father, have you ever met a lawyer that comes home and is like … wow, I just love my job ALAN That - that’s unfair - some people like being lawyers -

Beat.

Cecilia.

Go on, Alan.

FATHER

ALAN …and I told him that… I resent the way you look at me when I say that I want something more than what we already have. CECILIA But you’ve never said that, Alan! ALAN Yes - well - I’ve tried!

CECILIA No, you haven’t, what you do is you stash away your little…medals and rosaries, hiding from me -! Wait -

ALAN

CECILIA I’ve seen your little shrine, Alan Oh, my God -

ALAN

CECILIA All your little medals and prayer cards and stuff - you think that that’s what being a Catholic is, but you have no idea. ALAN But - okay - you never -

CECILIA What I’m hearing from you, Alan, is that you think that converting to Catholicism will suddenly fix the fact that you feel small, and insignificant, because you’re too good to feel these things, right? And you think that all of a sudden you won’t be pissed about your life choices, and pissed at yourself for not caring about anything, and that it’ll fix me AND you. Right?

CECILIA’s looking at her gloves, trying to mask the pain. ALAN’s looking at her in disbelief.

ALAN I don’t even - I don’t even know what that was. What was that? 260

CECILIA (re: the whole meeting) That’s what this is!

ALAN No, that was you. Why are you doing this? Why are you - why do you keep going on these little -

Beat.

CECILIA You think that I hate you for wanting more than we have, but I know that we have NOTHING Alan! Nothing!

Cecilia.

FATHER

CECILIA’s eyes cut to Father Andrew.

FATHER If I may. I see you … in this church. From time to time.

CECILIA says nothing. She tries to ignore the stabbing pain.

FATHER You sit and you pray I don’t pray.

CECILIA

FATHER Alright, you don’t pray. But you do come here. I do see you. CECILIA … I went to Mass here. As a child.

FATHER ANDREW says nothing.

CECILIA And I come here because I think about my childhood sometimes. Not because I want to pray.

FATHER ANDREW looks at her. He looks at the fingerless gloves that she’s wearing. CECILIA I tried to get in contact with my ex-husband. You -

Yes.

(to Alan)

ALAN

CECILIA

(to Father Andrew) I did. EXT. CEMETERY - MORNING CECILIA stands in the cemetery behind the church. She looks down at a grave - and we see a BOUQUET OF ROSES. They’re brown and wilted, dying. From behind CECILIA, we can see ALAN approaching, from the church. CECILIA turns around ALAN What the hell was that?

CECILIA Alan, I don’t want to do this again ALAN No, you don’t, you never do -

CECILIA Alan, please, we’re in a cemetery -

ALAN I don’t care where we are, I’m not going to let this happen Alan. Come on.

CECILIA

ALAN What the hell is wrong with you? Why were you acting like that?

CECILIA Why were you acting like that? Like you know more about Catholicism than a priest 261

ALAN I wasn’t acting like that - how was I acting like that? CECILIA Alan, I can’t - I just can’t. Anymore.

Beat. A quietness develops between them - a tenderness, a palpable exhaustion and sorrow. CECILIA is fighting back tears. CECILIA I didn’t think that this was going to be this hard. Because you know, you know what this was like for me. And how I finally thought I’d gotten rid of it. But now it’s all - it’s all coming back and I just - and I called Eli, because I wanted to do something nice for you, I thought that maybe it would help, but now - here we are. ALAN No. I know. … it’s okay.

ALAN slowly approaches her and holds her. I just -

Beat. He hugs her.

I know.

CECILIA ALAN

ALAN … I’m sorry. … I love you.

A moment.

CUT TO:

… I love you too.

CECILIA

CECILIA (PRE-LAP) And so … then he just hugged me. And we haven’t talked about it since.

INT. CAFE - DAY REINA and CECILIA sit opposite each other in a dingy, 24-hour cafe, drinking coffee. A tacky Christmas carol plays quietly. CECILIA is wearing her fingerless gloves. REINA So what’s gonna happen?

CECILIA I don’t know. I don’t know what it meant, you know, I don’t know if it meant like, I’m not going to do it, I’m sorry, or - I’m sorry that you’re still going to have to go through this, I’m sorry, you know -? Yeah, yeah, right -

REINA

CECILIA I mean - I explained to him that this is really hard on me. But - I don’t know if he cares or not.

Beat. CECILIA smiles to herself.

Beat. REINA looks at her.

CECILIA Alan’s always been obsessed with Catholicism, you know. … I remember, on our first date, when I told him that I was raised Catholic, he kept talking about these college classes that he took on Catholicism and the saints and how he was absolutely fascinated. And he told me that he would watch this TV series about saints and cathedrals and stuff, and I thought that it was all kind of sweet at the time, you know. That he was so enthused about it. It was something that I would never understand, you know, how he could be enthused about something that I’m so used to. And I knew that he collected saints medals, and prayer cards and stuff like that but I never thought - like, I thought it was just like a thing for him. I never thought that he would want to actually join the church. It never even crossed my mind, and it seems so stupid now, like, of course that’s what was going to happen. It’s so obvious. I just wish … I wish I could’ve, y’know, had the insight? I guess? To have seen it coming. It might have made it a bit easier. REINA But what about you? … what about me?

262

CECILIA

REINA I’m gonna be honest, I don’t care that much about Alan.

CECILIA laughs.

REINA I don’t. That’s not why I’m here.

Beat, as they look at each other -

(smiling) …okay.

CECILIA

REINA Why don’t you work?

Beat. CECILIA’s uncomfortable …

CECILIA - well. I’m not - well - Alan and I always said that when we have kids, I’d be the one at home. So. I haven’t REINA But you don’t have kids.

CECILIA Yeah, I know - but - trust me, I want to do something. I just … things are very fragile between me and Alan right now and I feel like he’ll think that me trying to get a job means I don’t want to have kids. REINA Well you can’t - I mean, if that’s the way things have to be then you can quit your job if you have kids. When. When what? When I have kids.

CECILIA REINA CECILIA

REINA Alright, when, but still. Do you not want to work?

CECILIA No, I do! I just - I don’t know … I mean, you don’t have a job either.

REINA But I work. I mean, I’m working more by not having a conventional job, - before it was me making copies and like - y’know, for a bunch of assholes. Now, I work.

CECILIA Well, I mean, maybe that kind of thing could work for you but it doesn’t really work for me. REINA I’m not trying to upset you. I’m not upset.

CECILIA

REINA What do you want to do? What do you want to do. Beat.

CECILIA … I don’t know. That’s the thing, I don’t know. REINA There’s nothing wrong with that.

CECILIA I mean - okay. When I was in grade school, I went to Catholic school you know. Duh. But … the nuns had all the girls sit in a circle and we would go around the room and say whether we wanted to be a nun when we grew up, or a teacher. REINA No way. They asked us that too. Really?

CECILIA

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REINA Yeah. Jeez, they need to get some new shit.

CECILIA Yeah, well, the Catholic Church isn’t really known for that, are they. REINA So what did you say?

CECILIA Well, I didn’t want to be a nun or a teacher, so when they got to me … I just stayed silent. And they were, you know, not happy about it. But I didn’t know. So, I got married. REINA … I said that I wanted to be a writer. CECILIA … what did they say to that?

REINA They didn’t say anything. They just stared at me. And then moved on to the next person. Simple as that. Because at the end of the day - I don’t think they really care.

CECILIA I couldn’t have done that - I mean, I still don’t know. Even now, if they asked me again, I wouldn’t know what to say. REINA But now, you don’t have to be a nun or a teacher.

CECILIA Yeah, but what would it be? You know. I don’t know what it would be. I can’t even begin to understand … how you did it. How I did what?

Beat.

REINA

CECILIA Manage to … escape that. REINA I quit my job so I could write. My job at the Weekly was mind-numbing and soul-killing. Now, I’m writing a novel. Oh. That’s -

CECILIA

REINA I never wanted it to be like this, but everything in the novel is about the church, and Catholicism, and not positive stuff. It’s all about the guilt, the repression, the - awful stuff. That I hate. But what’s strange is that - it just became that. Without me even trying. And writing about the guilt makes me feel guilty. And - my mom died recently. So CECILIA Oh - I’m - I’m sorry.

Beat.

REINA Oh, no, it’s okay - it’s just - that makes me feel … even more guilty. CECILIA My mom used to say this thing to me - when I was a little kid. She said - life is about the fine line between salvation and damnation. The people that tread that fine line are the ones that have the real fun. REINA (smiling) That’s what she told you? When you were a little kid? Yeah -

CECILIA

REINA She sounds like a cool mom.

CECILIA laughs, somewhat bitterly.

CECILIA Mm hmm. She just … she believes it. You know what I mean? She truly, undoubtedly, believes it. And it’s like it never occurred to her that I would grow up and not believe it. 264

Beat. REINA thinks.

Beat.

REINA … it never occurred to you that your husband would believe. So in a way … you and your mom did the same thing. REINA Do you think this is weird? What.

CECILIA

REINA Us getting together … and talking and stuff. CECILIA … yeah. But that doesn’t really bother me.

REINA looks at CECILIA’s hands as she holds her coffee mug. Fingerless gloves. She’s dying to ask her … what could it mean? REINA (still looking at Cecilia’s hands) Cecilia?

CECILIA’s in pain, but in this moment, she forgets. She looks into REINA’s eyes. REINA I’m not going to tell Eli about this. Or anyone.

CECILIA’s hands are bleeding …

Blood soaks through the gloves.

Is that okay?

REINA

INT. CAFE - BATHROOM - DAY CECILIA stands in the cafe bathroom, running cold water over her hands. They’re violently red, gruesome gashes. They look worse than they ever have before. She winces, near tears, as the water runs over her wounds, turning the water red. She turns the tap off, and just looks at them. INT. CAFE - DAY REINA sits at the table, waiting for Cecilia to come back from the bathroom. She looks at Cecilia’s coffee mug. The handle has tiny drops of blood on it. INT. CAFE - BATHROOM - DAY The bathroom, again. CECILIA looks at her hands. From behind her, the door opens. Cecilia?

REINA

CECILIA turns around with hands behind her back, not wanting anyone to see - to discover that it’s REINA. … are you okay?

REINA

CECILIA looks at her. She keeps her hands behind her back - blood drips from the wounds down her wrists, to the floor. Tears well up in her eyes - she can’t stop them anymore. This is the first time we see her cry, truly cry.

No.

(quietly)

CECILIA

REINA looks at CECILIA’s face, and then at her hands. …CECILIA, tentatively, shows them to her. She hasn’t shown anyone before. REINA’s registers what she’s looking at, unable to believe.

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JAD E N M CGU I R E

Visual Arts | South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities, Greenville, SC

My God Up Acrylic paint, sharpie and graphite on foam board 2020 266

Indwelling Sin Acrylic paint, spray paint, sharpie and graphite on canvas 2020 267

UMA MENON Spoken Word | Winter Park High School, Winter Park, FL

Math Drills In Friday’s class, we expand binomials into gasps – meaning we calculate trajectories of moving objects & analyze the chances of touching death, then living instead. The numbers, small scribbles, weigh heavy like lead & I wonder why they cannot be swallowed. Our bodies are nestled together in the classroom corner: doors locked, lights killed, hearts pulsing. The girl beside me has been chased too many times by wailing alarms. She remembers code red better than the formula for volume. Our heads are all bent in shame, tucked below desks to wait for a bedtime story. Sometimes we are afraid of being lost to bullet holes. We are afraid of our voices becoming static under the hold of a trigger. We are afraid that our parents will see us one day on television: limbs heaped over each other, syrup-drenched, becoming pixels that flit across the screen. My mother wonders whether she was right to cross the seas. She knows that brown bodies in the news are more often dead than alive. An announcement washes over the school: the drill is over, we are free to return to normal learning. We freeze, wary of every promise of safety. This is how we have been taught. We are afraid that our nightmares will come true before our dreams. We are afraid of addition: body + bullet.

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Manglish When I was young, we used to watch a woman on television whose hair was puffed like popcorn. She hosted a show where children dressed like gift wrapping and crooned like songbirds. The woman spoke a delicate language – a language that teetered, unbalanced, like a seesaw. What she spoke was half-English, half-Malayalam. Half-cherry-tree, half-waterlily. I watched in awe as she folded back each word – each petal – and carved small red fruits in their place. Never mind her, my mother would say. She speaks Manglish. Manglish, as in the muddied hybrid that festers tongues. The language of halves: of broken mouths and rootless fists. Manglish, as in the unwritten language, the liminal space. The mix-and-match, pick-your-poison speech to be learned, then unlearned. As I grew older, I learned to become that language. I write its letters, which resemble locks of my lawless hair. There are some coiled springs, a few broken stems, & the rest bend sharply away from my skin. I unhinge verb endings & bolt them onto the wrong language. I say things twice – once for each tongue. I migrate between mouths: wallow in their oneness & swallow their borders. I weave together two tongues, but don’t bother to hide their seams. Even now, I don’t think in English or dream in Malayalam. Between my teeth, I craft my own vicious language. Two tongues tied together – forever full.

269

SOFIA MILLER Short Story | Westview High School, San Diego, CA

Self Portrait in Oil In the days before quarantine, all she asked for was paint. I brought groceries—beans and bread and strawberries. She scoffed. We both knew the strawberries would rot, uneaten. I sat the bags down and began emptying the groceries into the fridge and pantry while she hobbled back over to the lime green couch in the square TV room. “Let me make you a smoothie, Abuela.” She patted down the couch for a remote. “Do what you want. I want paint.” I began slicing off the heads of the strawberries. “What’s wrong with the paints you have upstairs?” Tom and Jerry flickered on, reflected in the mirror above the couch. She watched, intently, as Tom’s face flattened to a pancake after sprinting into a wall. I left the strawberries bleeding and open on the cutting board, then trotted upstairs to the old art room. It was mustier than I remembered. Mold crept along the upper corners, and already, some of the cheaper quality canvas had begun peeling off their boards. I never remembered the floorboards as this creaky, the brush bristles so packed with dust. I used to steal away here on strawberry days when I dripped too much pool water into the house. I used to tread so carefully up those stained carpeted stairs, used to enter the room like it was a museum. Self-portraits in ink were perched so daintily upon coffee table book stacks, sprinkled among empty water jars and landscapes in oil. I picked up a tube of oil paint from a yellowed, plastic box and unscrewed the cap, or tried to. It took two more tries to twist the tube open, and it became clear as to why: this paint was dead. It hardened into ashes, dried up creeping into the cap, in some last attempt at escape from its own corpse. I cradled it downstairs, as if it could still break. She was watching a commercial now, one advertising a trip to Cabo, Mexico. “You remember your grandfather and I were going to go?” I sat on the couch. “Mhmm.” “That was four years ago.” Tom and Jerry returned to the screen, Tom stepping on a pitchfork and getting a faceful of wood. I offered her the paint tube. Vermillion. “Do you want the same colors as before, Abuela?” She raised her shaking hand to grab the tube, but I pulled back. “You’ll have a smoothie?” I asked. She didn’t say yes, but I bought every color she asked for anyways. I asked what she was going to paint, but she laughed, said I’ll do it when you’re not looking and sent me for more paint, still. Always, always, she feared running out. On the second day that I resupplied her paint, she told me not to come inside. Said the walls weren’t ready, that she had so much work to do. The next time I brought groceries, she invited me to step inside the house again. The walls were bare. Each framed painting had been whisked away, square blocks of preserved white house paint from forty years ago interspersed amongst the rest of the grayed walls. “Abuela, where did everything go?” “Oh, those paintings were so tired. They needed to sleep.” She shooed me out without any other explanation, said Come back with more paint on Tuesday, and I did. I wanted her to have something to do. I wanted her to be happy. On Tuesday, the house reeked of paint fumes. 270

I found her kneeling beneath the TV, with nothing playing, while she painted the TV stand. It was a portrait of a young man with tan skin and dark hair, ink smudged across his cheeks. The blinds were shuttered. “Mi papá,” she said, pointing to the portrait. “¿Lo recuerdas, nieta?” “No. Yo nunca….conocer él, ¿recuerdas?” She turned to look at me, a soft disappointment in her eyes. “Your Spanish needs work, nieta.” “I know.” When she said nothing else, I whispered, I’m sorry. I wandered through the rest of the house, trying to hold in my coughs at the stench. The kitchen cabinets were scribbled with sketches of dancers in a ballroom. Men in sleek suits and women in silk gowns and high heels. On the door of the top right cabinet where the glasses go, there were a man and a short woman swaying together, the woman resting her head on his shoulder, and the woman was her. There was one finished piece so far, tucked away in the living room corner behind the piano no one ever played. It was the portrait of a girl, sitting at a wooden table in the dark, bent over a piece of paper and charcoal, and I’d like to think that this was her, too. When I tiptoed back upstairs into the art room, there was nothing left. The self-portraits were gone, the brushes gone, the easels and dead oil paint, gone. Everything she had cast into this corner had crawled out. I opened up all the windows I could to ventilate the house. The windows in the bathroom, the bedroom, the kitchen, the sliding door leading out into the backyard. When I left, I’m almost sure that she closed them all. This Tuesday was the last day I saw her before the state closure. I waited two weeks before coming back for groceries, and when she didn’t pick up the phone, I called the neighbors. She doesn’t come outside much, they said, but I guess all things considered…. I think she’s working on some project, they said, and I wanted to say, Yeah, I know. A month passed like this, and I walked up to the door for the first time with a mask on. I called her in my car, after I dropped the bags off onto the floor. I can’t come inside today. Things are getting bad. You need to keep eating. I said all of these things, except I didn’t. What I said was, “Hey, I left your groceries outside. I wiped it all down for you.” I said nothing of paint, but the new packages were there, too, despite how much harder it was getting to buy them. I wanted her to be happy. I waved goodbye to the driveway monitor from my car. She called my dad a week later to say that her chest was hurting, and could he please take her to the doctor? He yelled for me to come downstairs. I was the last person to visit her house. I was wearing a mask and gloves. I cleaned everything before I brought it over. I didn’t even go inside. I don’t even have it. These are the things which I wanted to say. We decided that since I was the one everyone thought gave her the virus, I would take her to the drive-thru test. We waited and we waited

and I waited in my room for the seven days it took to get results. I could see why, suddenly, she wanted so badly to paint. When the test came back positive, I packed some of my things to take care of her, there, for a while. I was young. My symptoms were mild. I would make sure she ate, drank enough fluids. But through it all, all she asked for was to paint. She crept downstairs in the untouchable hours. She painted the kitchen into that ballroom. She painted her bedroom into her wedding day. And scattered everywhere, she painted herself pieces of México. I opened the windows, and they would close. I asked her to sit in the backyard with me, and she painted herself flowers creeping up the legs of the grand piano instead. I asked her to sit still, and she wouldn’t, until she had to. I woke up to the sound of falling, and she was there, crumpled beneath a new sketch of my grandfather on the closet door. Her breaths were ragged. Her vomit had mixed with spilled paint. When I called for the ambulance, I had to explain that both of us had the virus. They wouldn’t let me come with her. I stayed in that house and waited and waited and made a strawberry smoothie and waited and watched Tom and Jerry and called my father and wasn’t yelled at by my father when I thought, I thought I would be. She had pneumonia in both lungs. The first night of having the virus, I developed a fever. I fell asleep on that lime green couch facing the painting of Abuela’s father who I had never met, trying to think of words to say to him in the language that I had never mastered. Don’t worry. She will live. These are the words I wanted to say to him, to her, to me, but couldn’t. All I could do was sleep in that house with the stubborn windows. Sleep in that house with its guts spilling out. Sleep in that house which held so many faces on its walls. So many forgotten things. Nostalgia lining the hallways, regret lining the pantry. All I could do was sleep. When I woke up, it was to birdsong and a chill. The doors and windows were all opened. The sun was allowed to sneak in behind the morning breeze. Abuela’s father was gone. All the littered paint tubes and brushes and pencils remained scattered through the house, but the ballroom had disappeared. The wedding, the flowers, the girl sketching at the wooden table. I got the call from my father, and I knew. I picked up the paint tubes, the brushes, the pencils. I took it all with me to the front door, set it down on the porch outside. I prepped the door. I painted her.

271

MADISON MINISEE Design Arts | Encore Junior & Senior High School for the Arts, Hesperia, CA

Magic Crotchet 2019 272

Thrill Crotchet 2019/20 273

LAUREL MOR A

Play or Script | Booker T. Washington High School for the Performing and Visual Arts, Dallas, TX

WE’RE STILL HERE SCENE 1 Evening at camp. Sisters AQUILINA (24) and ISA (14) share a room. Aquilina’s half of the room is Spartan. Every item on her side serves a practical purpose. Isa’s half is an eclectic mix of handmade crafts and relics from the pre-apocalypse world. Isa lies on her bed with the sheet pulled over her head. Aquilina enters wearing combat-ready clothes. A sheathed machete is strapped to her belt. Aquilina flicks on the lights. Ah!

ISA Isa jerks and the sheet falls off her head. AQUILINA

You should be asleep.

ISA

I was!

Aquilina walks over to Isa’s bed. She pulls a book out from under the covers. AQUILINA

Then what’s this?

ISA

That’s… um, research for school?

AQUILINA “The Traveling Artist’s Guide to New York”. Isa, we’ve talked about this. ISA Ugh! I know. I know. (mocking) “It’s not safe to travel beyond the camp’s borders”. AQUILINA Because it’s not. Our survival is contingent on our vigilance and not engaging in unnecessary risks. ISA But we haven’t had a single monster sighting for almost six months! You can’t expect me to stay in this camp forever. I’m turning fifteen soon, and wouldn’t that make me a woman in the eyes of our Mexican culture that you’re always waxing poetic about? Since it’s my birthday, I should get to choose how to celebrate, and I want to celebrate my quinceanera outside of the camp’s borders. Wouldn’t you prefer to have an actual quinceanera?

AQUILINA

ISA Based on what you told me about them, we don’t have enough people at camp to hold a proper quinceanera. Besides, it’s not like we could do the fatherdaughter dance, and isn’t that a significant part? AQUILINA I could dance with you. A sister is just as good as a father, right? We can find a solution for the other stuff too. ISA I don’t want a quince. You already know how I want to celebrate my fifteenth birthday, and I already know that you won’t let me do it. A tense pause. This is an old argument. AQUILINA I’m going on patrol with Talin. I fully expect you to be asleep by the time I come back from patrol. But if you insist on staying up, at least practice your Spanish. (under her breath) I don’t see the point. You’re the only one who speaks it. 274

ISA

AQUILINA Which is precisely why you need to learn it. We may one day find a survivor or survivors who only speak Spanish. It would be our responsibilityISA To make them feel understood and welcomed. It also helps preserve the memory of our parents. Yo sé. AQUILINA I don’t know what exactly has gotten into you lately, but I sincerely hope you lose that attitude before I return. (beat) Good night Isa. Te quiero. (grumbling)

ISA

Love you too. Aquilina exits. SCENE 2 The camp’s border. A barbed wire fence is the only barrier between the camp and the harsh outside world. Enter Aquilina and her friend TALIN (25). She is a fellow hunter, but Talin’s weapon of choice is a bat. AQUILINA I just don’t get it! Every single time I try to have a civilized conversation with Isa, she gives me nothing but attitude! TALIN

You do realize she is a teenager, right? Yes, but- I wasn’t like that when I was her age, was I?

AQUILINA

TALIN Uhhh… no… But then again, our world had just ended, and pretty much everyone we ever loved had just died, so our teenage angst was less rebellion against authority and more severe trauma. Ha. True. (beat) She’s turning fifteen soon. Already? Damn. Has a whole decade really passed?

AQUILINA TALIN

AQUILINA Yeah. I can’t believe it either… I’m thinking of finally giving in and taking her beyond the camp borders. TALIN Wait, really? You. The poster child for staying inside the camp’s borders? AQUILINA

Yeah. Yeah. I know. Well I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you had it in you.

TALIN

AQUILINA Oh shut up. (beat) Isa is growing up. It would be foolish to think I could keep her here forever. I would at least like to be with her when she does venture out. The two come to a stop before the fence. AQUILINA (CONT’D) Wait. Look here. The wood is rotting away. Enough force and the wire will rip right out. TALIN Huh. We’ll notify the repairmen as soon as we get back, but don’t get yourself worked up about it in the meantime. The monsters aren’t smart enough to take advantage of that. It’s not the monsters I’m worried about.

AQUILINA

Chittering interrupts their conversation. The two hunters draw their weapons. You were saying?

TALIN Aquilina glares at Talin as she unsheathes her machete. Talin grabs onto her bat and stands in a defensive position. They wait. Nothing. At ease.

False alarm.

AQUILINA She sheathes her machete. 275

TALIN C’mon. We should head back. The sunrise shift is set to take over soon. Time to let some other poor schmucks be monster bait. Aquilina pulls a face. AQUILINA

God, I hate you.

TALIN Funny ‘cause your tongue being shoved down my throat last night says otherwise. AQUILINA Oh look! I think I can see the sunrise shift. We should go debrief them. Aquilina quickly exits. Talin cackles then follows after her. SCENE 4 Lights up on Aquilina and Isa’s room. Isa is digging through Aquilina’s belongings while her friend ROSE (15) looks on with concern. ROSE Isa, I know I said I would come with you, but I really don’t think this is a good idea. ISA Oh relax, Rose. You heard my sister at the safety brief today. It’s been months since the last monster sighting. ROSE

Yeah but-

ISA Rose. You can’t let fear control you. There’s a whole world out there to explore! ROSE There’s also a whole world filled with monsters and other dangerous things! ISA So you would rather spend your whole life cowering in a bunker, wasting away and being too afraid to see if there’s something better out there? ROSE

Well, no but-

ISA Where’s your sense of adventure? Human beings are natural explorers who are filled with natural curiosity. We just need to find a few items, and we’ll be all set to have an adventure of our own exploring the outer world! ROSE There’s a difference between curiosity and downright snooping. ISA Rose, would it kill you to ease up a little? It’s not like you’re the one doing any snooping. All you have to do is keep watch. ROSE

Still, I don’t like this.

Isa is removing the contents out of a box. She pulls out a worn journal. ISA

Ooh. Now this is interesting.

ROSE

What is it? It looks like a diary. My sister’s diary to be specific.

ISA

ROSE A diary? Uh, Isa? I know I don’t understand what it’s like to have siblings, but this seems like crossing a major line. ISA Whatever. It’s her fault anyway. If Aquilina wasn’t so secretive about our past, then I wouldn’t have to resort to underhanded measures like this. Isa opens the diary. She flips through the pages with increasing frustration. Oh come on! What? What’s wrong?

276

ISA (CONT’D) ROSE

It’s in Spanish. The whole damn thing is in Spanish! Writing a diary in a dead language? Oh that’s genius!

ISA ROSE

Isa glares at Rose. ROSE (CONT’D) What? It serves you right for trying to snoop through your sister’s private thoughts. Although, hasn’t she been teaching you Spanish? ISA You’re right! Let’s hope ten years of Spanish lessons will finally pay off. She cracks open the diary. ISA (CONT’D) Hmmm. I’m missing a few words here and there, but I can understand it for the most part. Huh, it looks like she used to do track. ROSE

Like hunting down animals?

ISA No. Track like running for sport. Apparently it was a school thing. ROSE My mom used to tell me stories about when she went to school. Can you imagine it? A whole building full of kids our age! ISA

Crazy.

ROSE I know. Though if your sister loved to run in her free time growing up, it explains why she’s such a good hunter. ISA Ugh. My sister, Aquilina, badass monster hunter and hero of the camp. Saver of lives and doer of no wrongs. Kiss the sacred grounds she walks on. ROSE

Touchy subject much?

ISA

Let’s see what else is in here.

She pauses on a page. ISA (CONT’D)

Look here, March 15, 2120. Wasn’t that around the time the apocalypse started?

ROSE ISA

Yeah…

Isa reads the diary, and her face morphs into a look of horror. ROSE

Isa, what’s wrong?

ISA

...Aquilina killed my dad. What!? No, that can’t be right. Maybe you mistranslated?

ROSE ISA

I know what I read! She starts to exit. Where are you going!? To find answers!

ROSE ISA They both run offstage.

277

SCENE 5 Lights up on Talin’s room. Her room is a balance between practicality and personality. Talin and Aquilina are slow dancing as Aquilina sings “It Had To Be You”. AQUILINA (singing) It had to be you, It had to be you. I wandered around and finally found that somebody who Could make me be true, Could make be blIsa bursts into the room with Rose trailing behind her. The couple breaks away from each other in surprise. You said Mom and Dad were killed by monsters!

ISA AQUILINA

They were. What gave you the idea-

Isa holds up the diary. Where did you- You went through my shit!?

AQUILINA (CONT’D) ISA

LIAR!

AQUILINA

Excuse me?

ISA

You murdered Dad!

TALIN Isa, that is a serious accusation you are making. I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for it. ISA But I have proof ! (opening the diary) Diary entry on March 15th, 2120Aquilina snatches the diary out of Isa’s hands. She struggles to mask her emotions. (to Rose)

AQUILINA

Would you please be so kind and see yourself out? I am afraid this is a family matter. ROSE

I, uh, s-sure. Rose quickly exits.

ISA Hey no fair! How come my friend had to leave, but your friend gets to stay? AQUILINA Okay first off, this is Talin’s room, so it would be rude to kick her out of her own room. Second, Talin is my girlfriend, and you’ve known that for several years. Third, she helped me raise you, so Talin is honorary family. Hmpf.

ISA

AQUILINA Nothing I say is going to dissuade you from this matter, is there? Nope.

ISA

AQUILINA Very well… I was hoping to never have to tell this story, but it seems you’ve given me no choice. (beat, to herself ) This was supposed to be my burden to bear alone. TALIN Lina, you don’t have to say anything that you’re uncomfortable withNo! I want answers.

278

ISA

(warning)

TALIN

IsaISA Look, I may not remember them, but they were my parents too. You have to admit that you owe me at least that. AQUILINA

... you’re right.

ISA

I am? I mean, I am!

TALIN

Should I lea-

AQUILINA Stay Talin. I already said you were a part of this family. You deserve to hear this as well. Talin plops onto her bed. AQUILINA (CONT’D) Now, pay attention because this is the first and last time I’ll be telling this story. Aquilina opens her diary. (reading)

AQUILINA (CONT’D)

March 15, 2120. Dear diary, I did something unforgivableShe shuts the diary. I can’t. I can’t read this. Lina, don’t force yourself-

AQUILINA (CONT’D) TALIN

AQUILINA March 15, 2120. I had just come home from track practice, and I could tell something was wrong. Call it gut feeling, call it intuition, but something spurred me into action. I grabbed Dad’s machete out of the storage closet and went investigating. Aquilina’s fingers brush over the machete. AQUILINA (CONT’D) Things came to a head in your room, Isa. I’m used to seeing the monsters now, but seeing one for the first time was… well, I don’t think I could ever properly articulate the fear I felt in that moment. My body moved before I could second guess myself. I swung and hacked with the machete until the monster stopped moving for good. Mom was… I was too late to save her. Her body laid in front of the closet where I found you. Even in death, she did her best to protect you. I covered your eyes and carried you as I investigated the rest of the house. I put the pieces together when I saw that Dad was not in bed. By then, we had heard the stories from the news. That those who did not initially die from the virus suffered a worse fate. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was holding you in my arms, I probably would have broken down at the realization. TALIN Your father was already dead before you killed him. He was infected. There was nothing you could’ve done. You know that right? AQUILINA Logically, yes. But try telling that to a fifteen year old who firmly believed she just murdered her father in cold blood. I didn’t know where to go after that. We had family down in Vera Cruz, but by that point in the pandemic, the country’s borders had been shut down for months. ISA That’s why you were always on my case about learning Spanish! You were hoping to one day see them again. AQUILINA Among other reasons, yes. It was a pipe dream at best, but I wanted to be prepared. TALIN How did you make it to camp then, if it was just the two of you? AQUILINA Truth be told, I still don’t know how we managed to survive. I packed the car with as much supplies as I could fit and started driving. I didn’t even have my learner’s permit, yet I knew that I had to put as much distance between us and the house as possible. We ran out of gas fairly quickly. Things pretty much went downhill from there. There were times where I wanted to give up. With no family or friends and dwindling resources, what was the point of survival? Every monster encounter was a life or death battle. Each new day only seemed to bring more pain. (beat) But then I would look at you Isa, an innocent five year old who still looked at the world with wonder despite its horrors. Aquilina...

ISA

279

AQUILINA I made a promise to always protect you. I refused to lose any more family. It was too late for me, but if I could spare you from the cruelties of our new world I thought… maybe, just maybe, there might be a ray of hope for the future. I used to tell youISA “We’re going on an adventure.” I always wondered why you suddenly stopped wanting to go on adventures. They never really were adventures, were they? AQUILINA I’m afraid not. (beat) About three months in, a couple of scouts found us. They brought us to camp. People asked about our parents. I said “monsters”. They stopped asking after that. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend that the whole thing was black and white. Something I could bury in the past… And that’s the story. I suppose now that you know the truth, you turn me over to the council, and they decide my punishment. ISA What!? I’m not going to turn you in! I just… Why didn’t you ever say anything? AQUILINA I did. In the past, I tried to jog your memory. I would try to give you gentle reminders here and there, but after enough failed attempts I realized you must have repressed the whole incident. I must confess that I am slightly jealous of you in that regard. God forbid you develop a healthy coping mechanism. You seem to be handling this news remarkably well, Talin.

TALIN AQUILINA

TALIN Because I knew you had a reason. I know you, and I still love you, Lina. Even though I have blood on my hands?

AQUILINA

TALIN And you think I don’t? It was the apocalypse. We all did what we had to in order to survive. We still are. Every single monster we’ve killed used to be human. Our hands are drenched in their blood, but I don’t lose sleep over it because the human part of them died long ago. I also sleep easier knowing that we are keeping the ones still here with us safe. Lina, Lina, look at me. It’s okay. I’m still here. Isa is still here. We’re still here. You are not alone. You still have a family. So let us in when you’re struggling. Let me and Isa be the strong ones for once. The dam in Aquilina finally breaks. A tear rolls down her cheek. Isa and Talin step forward and envelop her in a hug. Aquilina’s tears turn into body-wracking sobs as she unloads ten years of suppressed trauma. Maybe the others have started crying too. It is a moment of extreme vulnerability. In time, Aquilina’s sobs come to an end. Talin and Isa reach out. They each wipe away tears from Aquilina’s face. There is silence for some time. They eventually ease out of the hug. Talin laughs. What’s so funny?

AQUILINA

TALIN Ah sorry. Probably not the best time, but you have to admit that there is something comedic about the past literally coming back to haunt you. Aquilina smacks Talin on the arm. This only causes her to start laughing again with Aquilina eventually joining in. Isa clears her throat. They both turn to look at her. ISA I’m sorry. For snooping through your diary, for not trying to be more understanding, for a lot of things, but no more secrets. Please? I’m old enough to handle whatever you were trying to protect me from. As you wish. Can you tell me more about them? What do you want to know? Everything. Start from the beginning please.

AQUILINA ISA AQUILINA ISA

AQUILINA Very well. Talin, my love, I’m afraid our date night has turned into a family one, I hope you don’t mind. I don’t. I would like to hear this story too. Alright. Get comfortable, you two. 280

TALIN AQUILINA

She pauses to let Talin and Isa get into a more comfortable position. AQUILINA (CONT’D) Our parents met in middle school. Our mom had just moved into the city, and our dad promised to show her around… Lights fade on the family. Translations: Yo sé = I know Te quiero = I love you (platonically)

281

YEON JOO NAM Visual Arts | Leland High School, San Jose, CA

Heart Beat Wire fencing, napkins, projected image 2018 282

Femininity Fur, pantyhose, cotton 2019 283

STEVIA NDOE

Photography | Walter Payton College Prep School, Chicago, IL

Giving Up Film photography 2020 284

Untitled Film photography 2020 285

CHARLIE NEVINS Photography | Crossroads School, Santa Monica, CA

Ice Cream on Sunday Film photography 2020 286

Elmo on the Pier Film photography 2020 287

JOHN NGUYEN Creative Nonfiction | Harding Senior High School, Saint Paul, MN

Her Son’s Mèˆn Hoa I placed my brightest Hawaiian shirts in my suitcase and my school supplies in my backpack, singing while I packed. I inherited my love for music from Má. She usually sings as she does chores. It was one week before I flew out of Minnesota and moved into college. When my two bags were nearly full, I realized I had entirely forgotten the most important items: sleep essentials. After much tucking, shoving, and panting, I successfully squeezed a bedsheet and pillow into my suitcases. Next was my blanket. As I folded it, Má walked into my room. “Why’re you bringing the me`ˆn hoa (floral blanket)?” she asked in Vietnamese, her head tilted, eyebrows furrowed. Responding in our mother tongue, I explained, “It’s my favorite: I love the patterns.” My mèˆn hoa is simply exquisite. It bears clusters of magenta tulips and orchids, burgundy camellias, maroon peonies, and pastel-pink cherry blossoms. Green stems and leaves curve and twist in the most satisfying ways. These bundles of flowers are arranged in a diagonal fashion against a beige background. My mèˆn hoa is a regal garment that any soon-to-be monarch can wear for their for coronation. Má insisted, “No, you shouldn’t bring it! It’s for girls, and everyone will think you are bê đê (gay). You should bring the blue blanket—it’s more manly. If you invite a girl over to your dorm room, she’ll see your ` hoa!” meˆn Well I’ve got news for you, Má. You don’t really need to worry about that last part—trust me. Little does Má know, I’ll be spending four years at the “gay Ivy,” a colloquial reference to Yale’s queer-friendly atmosphere. I smiled and thanked Má for her concerns. She stood in my room for several minutes to make sure I didn’t forget to bring anything important. Má checked off the boxes on her mental packing list, putting my pen and paper to shame. As she inspected my suitcases, the words “I am gay” danced on the tip of my tongue. I heard myself gasping for air, preparing to utter that life-changing three-word phrase aloud. But I didn’t. I decided not to spark a hellfire in my house. But at the same time, I didn’t just want to do as Má told me. When she departed my room, I discreetly packed my mèˆn hoa, discarding her recommendation. My mèˆn hoa has two faces. Behind the ornamental front side, maroon, pink, green and beige colors stripe the back of the blanket. I often faced this less-flashy side of my mèˆn hoa outwards, hiding the flower-laden front underneath so Má or Bá wouldn’t pay attention to it. I treasured the secret pleasure of viewing the front of my mèˆn hoa as it covered me from head to toe each night. Minutes before I fell asleep, wrapped up like a mummy, I’d occasionally use my phone’s flashlight to cast away the darkness beneath the blanket, illuminating the beautiful flowers. The mèˆn hoa isn’t simply a piece of cloth that I wrap myself in whenever I require warmth. Rather, it’s a teleportation device, sending me to a field of flowers every night. I couldn’t part with it. This little act—bringing my mèˆn hoa to college—may not be as enthralling as a coming-out story. But it was my own way of making a statement. As I folded the mèˆn hoa, I thought: If there is a time to exhibit my most genuine self, it would be in college. I considered bringing the blue blanket, as Má suggested, to look more “manly.” Although a part of me was sold on the idea of an accepting Yale, another part still had doubts. But I had reached a certain threshold—a point at which I was finished 288

concealing my queerness, my flamboyance and my “feminine” interests in an attempt to fit a conventional masculine mold. I’ve kept my gayness hidden from my parents since sixth grade, when I myself realized my unorthodox romantic attractions. It’s a six-year secret. I officially spoke the words “I am gay” into existence during my 2019 summer. I mouthed this phrase to some dear friends while on Princeton’s campus, attending a leadership program called LEDA. For the first time in my life, I proclaimed these words, accepting myself. After being released from the shackles that came with suppressing my gayness—after experiencing liberation—I returned home to Minnesota and continued to hide this aspect of myself from Má and Bá. But it wasn’t too stressful because I easily came out to my sisters. “LOL, who doesn’t know?” Cindy and Angela exclaimed. They then asked me when I was going to tell Má this secret, because my relationship with her is especially strong. Má knows a lot about me. She has witnessed my most vulnerable, ugly-crying moments to my happiest of joys. I’m comfortable telling Má anything. Well, except for that one truth. The night before I left for college was an inappropriate time to reveal my gayness to her. I bore a moral responsibility to ensure my family didn’t break apart. It would’ve been selfish of me to have the privilege of leaving home, letting my sisters deal with the aftermath of my coming out. I felt like Mulan when she saved China from the Huns, masking her identity as the only woman in an all-men’s army. Most importantly, I didn’t want to fight Má and have this quarrel serve as my last memory of her when I left for college. After I successfully passed through airport security, Má waved goodbye and pointed to her phone, prompting me to look at a text message she sent. “Be happy, be yourself and don’t let anyone break your spirits,” Má wrote. She then sent some pictures of the pungent pork broth of her homemade pho’ urging me not to miss the delicious meals she conjures up. Her cooking talent transcends that of any Michelin-Star chef. Má still wishes she had had the opportunity to attend culinary school, but my grandfather strongly discouraged her from pursuing this dream. She longs for her children’s lives to unfold differently. Má learned from my grandfather’s poor parenting, applying what she experienced with him to her own approach to motherhood. She hopes for me to sprout into a person I’m happy being. But Má is oblivious to the fact that this—my self-acceptance, my self-empowerment—is my way of blooming. She is unaware that I want to flourish gleefully like those tulips, camellias and cherry blossoms on my mèˆn hoa. Má may not have envisioned this type of blossoming, but there will surely come a day when she’ll be forced to confront my truth. Má fled war-torn Vietnam and foresaw her future children becoming educated, caring about their community and getting married. This third hope, however, will not be exactly how she expected. When that moment of truth—my coming out—arrives, I dream Má will still be invested in my well-being, urging me to “be happy.” I have some reason for hope. In the past, Má has defended me. Whenever Bá lectured me about my colorful room, Má entered and exclaimed, “Let him do what he likes—he’s just a kid. He’s gonna get tired of his room soon, anyways!” Má advocated for me, but then she exhorted that I was undergoing a phase—that I’d someday grow tired of seeing the rainbow walls around

my room, or eventually cease to adore my mèˆn hoa. She insinuated that it would be peculiar for me to still like these “girly” things as an adult. To Má, my interests are short-lived. But Má is incorrect. I’ll love my blindingly vibrant room and my mèˆn hoa until I leave this world, showcasing my colorful bedroom to anyone and everyone, unapologetically carrying my mèˆn hoa to places I’ve never been. And now that I’m on campus, the front of my mèˆn hoa faces out. Just as I’ve taken my love for flowers and colors to Yale, I’ve also brought my love for singing. Seated at my flight’s gate, with my mèˆn hoa in my suitcase, I started humming a Vietnamese river lullaby that I used to sing as a middle schooler. In sixth grade, I noticed my mother watching Vietnamese television and heard the song. I was instantly bewitched. These lullabies are traditionally performed by women, but I didn’t care. The elegance of these Vietnamese women singing captivated me. Whenever I sing, I aspire to emulate the gracefulness of these women, as well as the deep, melancholic tone of their singing voices. Their yearning to return to the rivers and valleys of our motherland—the powerful sadness of their vocal timbre—moved my sixth-grade self and continues to move me today. I hope to imitate their majesty. That sixth-grade afternoon, as my voice permeated the room, Má entered, puzzled. “You shouldn’t be singing a woman’s song!” My smile shattered. The hobby I grew up seeing Má enjoy was deemed unacceptable if I did the same. I didn’t listen though—I’ve continued singing for the past six years. I’m a hummingbird who proudly chirps my song and feels most at home when surrounded by a meadow of colorful camellias and peonies—when covered in my mèˆn hoa. The sound of my singing voice bouncing off the walls enchants me. But I can’t manifest these aspects of myself in front of Má and Bá. At least, not yet. There is indeed some weight on my shoulders holding me down, knowing I have yet to disclose my gayness to my parents. Will I be happier if and when I come out to them? Most likely. But until then, I’ll conceal myself around them and shine around everyone else. That’s how I’ve maneuvered through life since I acknowledged my gayness a year ago. In one year, my story went from residing in my mind to being shared with my peers at LEDA, my sisters, some dear high-school friends, and now you. I’m content with having my sun and moon wait their turns. Did Má understand the hidden message behind her son’s colorful room and his love for Vietnamese river songs? Did she realize his mèˆn hoa wasn’t merely a covering, but a banner unveiling his rainbow? If not, when will she? For now, we’ll wait and see. “Be yourself,” Má emphasized at the airport. And so, I shall. I love you, Má.

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ANNA NICKLESS Design Arts | Design and Architecture Senior High School, Miami, FL

Kite Inflated Dress Kite surfing material, kite cord 2020 290

Jackets and Swimwear Kite boarding material 2020 291

MARLEY NOEL

Play or Script | Harper Middle College High School, Charlotte, NC

Boundaries FADE IN: INT. AUTO REPAIR SHOP - DAY The setting sun barely illuminates the workshop causing the indoor lights to switch on. MECHANICS are scattered around the shop cleaning and tinkering to finish up their day. INDIE PAUL (late 20s) a sheepish woman, watches off to the side as the auto repairman, SAL (late 40s), finishes up the last of the inspection of her car, a classic model, navy blue, made circa 1969. Sal wipes his hands and walks back to Indie.

Indie breathes a sigh of relief.

SAL She passed. You got nothing to worry about, some cars just drive heavy. SAL Yup, good purchase. Got a taste for vintage? INDIE Yeah, it’s kinda my thing. So how much?

Sal looks back at his COLLEAGUE and gives a sly chuckle. His colleague glances up and does the same. Thirty.

SAL

INDIE For a regular inspection?

Indie purses her lips. Sal smirks.

Yup.

SAL

A beat. Indie coughs up the thirty. SAL Pleasure doin’ business.

Indie scoffs as she heads to her car.

INT. CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Indie drives in silence minus the rumbling of the car. She pulls into the driveway of her dull, straight-edged, modern style house. She runs her hands around the steering wheel admiring it then turns off the car and gets out. INT. INDIE’S HOUSE - NIGHT Indie enters and hangs her keys by the door. Her boyfriend, SEAN (late twenties), sits on the couch watching some adult cartoon program. He doesn’t acknowledge her. INDIE Fifty years, works like a charm but three months with me and it turns into one of those whole grain granola bars.

She walks over to the couch and slumps down next to him. There’s no love between them. Platonic or romantic. He speaks without taking his eyes off of the TV.

SEAN Can you bring me my leftovers from the fridge? 292

I just sat down.

INDIE

SEAN I know but I’m so tired.

Indie looks at him exhausted. He stays stuck to the TV. She forces herself up. INT. INDIE’S HOUSE - KITCHEN - NIGHT - CONTINUOUS Indie enters and grabs the Chinese food out of the fridge. She dumps it in a plate and exits. INT. INDIE’S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT - CONTINUOUS She hands Sean the plate. He hands it back. SEAN I didn’t hear the microwave.

Indie breathes heavily out of her nose and heads back to the kitchen. INT. INDIE’S HOUSE - KITCHEN - NIGHT - CONTINUOUS Indie marches in. SERIES OF SHOTS -- Indie throws the food into the microwave -- Indie waits in front of it while it runs. -- Indie stabs a fork into the plate. INT. INDIE’S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Indie hands Sean the plate a little more rough this time and heads up the stairs.

Sean starts to eat.

INDIE I’m going to shower.

INT. INDIE’S HOUSE - BATHROOM - NIGHT The shower runs for a few seconds then is turned off. Indie grabs a towel then steps out of the shower with the towel wrapped around her. She checks her phone. There’s a text from her friend, “KYLIE”: “Finally the weekend!!! You have to do breakfast with us tomorrow, girl!” Indie sighs and throws a silent tantrum. After she collects herself she replies to the text with a completely straight face: “Definitely!!!” INT. INDIE’S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT In a quiet, dark room illuminated by the streetlights shining through the window, Indie rolls onto her side of the bed. She stares at the ceiling looking as if she isn’t even trying to go to sleep. The other half of the room, undoubtedly Sean’s side, has clothing and mess scattered around on the ground. Some articles, including an empty snack box, a gas mask, and a baseball cap, spill onto what is supposed to be Indie’s side which is otherwise spotless. Her CAT jumps up onto the bed and proceeds to walk all over her. She raises her head to look at her then drops her head back onto her pillow and sighs. INT. INDIE’S HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY Indie stands over the sink, washing a cup. Sean enters still in his pajamas. He tries to turn on the stove but the flame doesn’t catch. SEAN You haven’t fixed this stove yet?

Indie screws her face from the smell of the gas in the air.

She finishes washing the cup and leaves the kitchen. Sean continues to fumble with the stove.

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SEAN Don’t like the smell of gas just fix the stove, Indie! EXT. INDIE’S HOUSE - FRONT PORCH - DAY Indie exits the house. She locks the door and turns around to her car. She freezes. Her bag drops to the ground. The car is gone. She stares at the empty spot where the car should be, then walks over and stands in it. She slides her hands over her head. INDIE Yup, sure, of course.

She continues to watch the empty spot for a second then pulls out her phone and dials 911. OPERATOR (V.O.) 911 What’s your emergency. INDIE Hi, I’d like to report a...

Something catches her eye off to the side in her neighbor’s driveway across the street. Classic car, navy blue, made circa 1969.

Indie stares confused at her car.

Ma’am?

OPERATOR

INDIE Uh... sorry, never mind, sorry. Are you--

OPERATOR

She hangs her phone up and heads over to her neighbor’s house, leaving her bag on the ground. EXT. KENNEDY’S HOUSE - DAY - CONTINUOUS WIDE SHOT: KENNEDY TERERRA, (mid-twenties) A clever but lazy soul, comes around from the unseen side of the car with a switchblade. She drives it into the front right tire and drags it down. Indie gasps and picks up speed. UM?!

INDIE

Kennedy looks up and turns around.

Morning!

KENNEDY

INDIE What are you doing to my car! (casually) Slashing the tires.

KENNEDY

Kennedy picks up a cup of tea she had on the hood of the car and takes a sip. (a beat) Okay... why?!

INDIE

KENNEDY You bought it from Kyle Tererra, right? Yes?

INDIE

KENNEDY That’s my granddad. Come in. 294

Kennedy walks over to her front door passing a weather-beaten “sold” sign that lays on her lawn. Indie watches her in disbelief. INT. KENNEDY’S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY Indie enters closing the door behind her. Kennedy’s house is empty. Very empty. There is no furniture or moving boxes, not even a mattress. Indie spots one thing in the corner of the room, however. The battery to her car. KENNEDY You want a cinnamon bun? They’re fresh.

Indie looks around for a chair then settles for the floor. Kennedy stays standing.

INDIE ...no. So again, why--

KENNEDY (stirring her tea) Cute neighborhood. Quiet though. I don’t think I’ve even heard a bird the entire month I’ve been here-INDIE Why do you have my car?!

There’s a FLUSH from the bathroom off to the side. It catches both of their attention. An old man, KYLE TERERRA, comes out of the bathroom. His eyebrows meet as he looks around. He looks at the two girls. This isn’t my house.

KYLE

He becomes shaky. Kennedy walks over to him and moves her tea under his nose. KENNEDY Take a deep breath through your nose.

Kyle does so and after a few seconds, he smiles warmly at Kennedy. He then turns his attention to Indie. KYLE You’re the young lady I sold that car to.

Indie waves shyly.

He smiles to himself reflecting.

KYLE I could’ve lived in that car. The build, the color, the seats.

KYLE A piece of art. But I was young and stupid when I bought it and they don’t tell young athletes how to handle all that money. The expenses caught up with me and--

Kennedy leads Kyle upstairs.

KENNEDY Ok, well I’m gonna take you upstairs and turn on some old Bob Rosses.

Indie is left alone in the room. As she realizes this, she looks up the stairs, listens for a second, then runs over and grabs her car battery. EXT. KENNEDY’S HOUSE - DAY Indie slams the hood of her car shut and runs around to the driver’s side. She starts the car and, Nothing. The dial is BELOW “E”. Indie Shakes the steering wheel in anger. KENNEDY (O.S.)

Not only did I take the battery and slash your tires,

Kennedy leans on the door frame.

Indie drags herself out of her car.

KENNEDY But I siphoned your gas.

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Why?!

INDIE

Kennedy motions for Indie to follow her as she walks back into the house and, reluctantly, Indie follows. INT. KENNEDY’S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY Indie is sitting on the ground across the room from Kennedy who leans on the wall. Indie stares at her with malice in her eyes, Kennedy stares back, like a teacher waiting for her class to quiet down. KENNEDY You sure you don’t want one of those cinnamon rolls?

Indie’s face goes into a grimace of disbelief.

Kennedy waits for a response, then rolls her eyes and goes into the kitchen. She’s not gone for long and when she comes back, she’s holding a wad of cash. $200,000 in hundreds. KENNEDY This is just half of what I got for that car.

Indie is taken aback.

You sold my car?!

INDIE

KENNEDY Not your car anymore. Hank Ramos owns it now. INDIE The sunglasses guy?!

Indie’s hands travel to her head.

KENNEDY The millionaire sunglasses guy, yes. INDIE (sotto) What in the world is going on right now?

Kennedy walks over and sits about a foot away from Indie.

KENNEDY OK, listen. Mr. Tererra up there, has a memory set up like a never-ending game of whack-amole. One memory will pop into his mind for a bit then go away. It may come back soon or not for another five weeks. He sold that car to you while the memory that he had hidden a statue he made by melting all of his championship game rings together in the car, was in hibernation.

Indie stares at Kennedy as if she was speaking backwards mandarin. INDIE Championship game rings?

Kennedy is confused for the first time in their interaction.

Indie blinks, clueless.

KENNEDY Yes? Kyle Tererra? Territorial Tererra? KENNEDY Fucking hell did you grow up with the Amish? He was a freaking football God! You were driving around in $400,000! How much did he sell it to you for?! About $2,000.

INDIE

Kennedy’s eyebrows basically touch her hairline as she sucks in a sharp breath. Then she breathes out and closes her eyes for a second. KENNEDY You know what, this is good for me.

Kennedy pulls out twenty hundreds and hands them over to Indie. She doesn’t take it. Kennedy drops the money in her lap and hops to her feet. KENNEDY Hank will be here in thirty minutes if he’s on time--

INDIE Woah, hold on a second! Why not just sell the rings?!

KENNEDY Hun, the rings are part of the deal. I don’t wanna waste my time looking for them,

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(gesturing upstairs) he can barely remember them, Hank gets the ultimate scavenger hunt for $400,000. It’s a win win.

Indie squints at Kennedy in disbelief

She opens the front door.

KENNEDY Ok well maybe not for you but I paid you back, KENNEDY so you should leave.

INDIE I think I’d rather have my car back! KENNEDY I think I’d rather you get out.

Indie purses her lips but gets up. As she does, a luxury sports car pulls into the driveway. Kennedy kisses her teeth. HANK RAMOS gets out of the passenger side and immediately speed walks over to Indie’s car. He runs his hands down the side in amazement. You’re early.

KENNEDY

HANK You don’t make money being late my child. This shit is beautiful. You bring the tires?

KENNEDY

She pushes Indie to the side sending her straight to the ground. HANK Yeah of course. Theo, pop the trunk.

Hank walks back to his car as THEO, hank’s driver, presses the button to pop the trunk. He pulls out three tires one by one then rolls them over and sets them against the Volvo. Hank gets up to the front door and shakes Kennedy’s hand. Finally right?

HANK

Indie hops up and pushes herself between Hank and Kennedy. That’s my car!

INDIE

HANK Woah, what the hell?

INDIE That’s my car she stole from me and she’s trying to sell it!

Hank stares at Indie almost disgusted. A beat. Ok?

HANK

He pushes past Indie who watches him shocked. Kennedy smirks at her as they walk farther into the house. Indie purses her lips. A beat. She lets out a heavy breath calming herself. INDIE You know what, I think I will have one of those cinnamon buns.

Indie walks into the kitchen.

Sure, whatever.

KENNEDY

HANK Friggin’ blue collars am I right?

Hanks pulls out a wad of cash. Another $200,000 in hundreds.

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Nice.

KENNEDY

Kennedy starts counting it out as Indie strolls out of the kitchen eating a cinnamon roll. Kennedy stops for a minute and watches her stroll out of the front door.

She continues to count.

Finally.

KENNEDY

She whispers the numbers under her breath. KENNEDY 300, 400, 500, 600, 700, 800...

Hank screws his face and sniffs at the air a couple of times. ...900, 1,000...

KENNEDY

Kennedy sniffs the air but brushes it off.

KENNEDY 1,100, 1,200, 1,300... 1,400...1,500... 1,600...

Kennedy looks up, confused. She meets eyes with an equally confused Hank. They then collapse to the floor. Silence. After a few seconds, Indie comes back into the house wearing a gas mask. She strolls through the house to the kitchen. INT. KENNEDY’S HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY

Indie twists all five of the knobs for the stove from “catch” to “off ”. The gas stops running. EXT. KENNEDY’S HOUSE - DAY Indie changes the last tire on her car using the tires Hank brought. Hank’s driver has earbuds in in the b.g. and is completely oblivious to what’s going on. INT. KYLE’S BEDROOM - DAY Kyle sleeps on the bed. Indie enters and walks across the room. She opens the window. On her way out she looks back at him. EXT. KENNEDY’S HOUSE - BACKYARD - DAY Indie drags an unconscious Kennedy out of the house and places her right in front of the door. She goes back into the house and drags Hank out placing him next to Kennedy. She sticks a sticky note on both of their foreheads. Kennedy’s says, “Report me” Hank’s says, “I dare you”. Right before she walks back inside, she catches sight of something in the corner of her eye. A gas can. She walks over and picks it up. INT. KENNEDY’S HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY Indie re-enters from the backyard and looks at the cinnamon buns as she passes them. She shrugs, “Why not?” and grabs a bag off of the counter. She fills it with Cinnamon buns and tea packets. INT. KENNEDY’S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY She enters and halfway through, she looks at the money on the ground. She takes one wad. Right next to the door sits a still sleeping Kyle in a wheelchair. She walks out of the door pushing the wheelchair. EXT. KENNEDY’S HOUSE - DAY Indie opens her backseat door, throws in the bag, the money, then the car jack she used to change the tires next to a sleeping Kyle. The jack rips the seat. Indie looks up at the sky and sighs. When she looks back down, she sees something shine. She looks a little closer and reaches her hand into the seat.

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Her eyes widen. She pulls her hand up from in the seat and in it, is a tiny silver statue of a football player. Obviously homemade, with 4 thumbnail sized jewels scattered around it. One in the chest, one in the back, one on the helmet, and one posing as the ball. (sotto) Fucking hell.

INDIE

INT. CAR - DAY Indie closes her door and puts the statue in her cup holder. She rips her gas mask off and takes a deep breath. She takes out her phone and calls her friend. KYLIE (V.O.) Indie, where the hell are you!? I’m not coming.

INDIE

Indie hangs up without waiting for a response. She puts the car in reverse and drives off. FADE OUT. THE END.

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AIKO O FFN ER

Creative Nonfiction | Harvard-Westlake School, Studio City, CA

Thirteen Strings Name I have two names. The first, the name officers at airport security assume I go by, Venice. They’ll always ask if I’m going to Italy, and then they’ll check my ticket and realize that no, I’m not, it’s kind of a rhetorical question considering they have all of my flight information. I still laugh and say no, it’s on my bucket list, though. Then it’s Aiko. That’s the name my teachers will struggle to pronounce on the first day, the name my friends struggle to come up with nicknames for, the name people at cash registers will say is beautiful because they haven’t heard it before and want me to sign up for the newsletter. My mom had a dream that her kid was named Venice when she was living in Venice, California with my dad. She named me after that dream, not the place. She was very pregnant and had just moved to Venice. My grandmother named me Aiko. My mother had given her the duty of choosing my Japanese middle name. She and my aunt (mom’s younger sister) looked at a dozen books of names and different kanji, but ultimately decided on Aiko because my grandma heard someone say Aiko to their daughter at a train station, and she thought it was pretty. Miracle Baby My dad got really mad at me on a gloomy quarantine day in July. I was putting the dishes away when he came down in between conference calls for lunch. My mom had just left for Japan, so I was stuck doing all of the housework along with starting online summer classes and having to pack for my own trip. I was incredibly stressed, but tried to bury that in my appreciation for how hard my dad works. But then he came down and told me to shut up and help on his own terms and how I was like an incompetent employee to him because I made the dishes clatter when he got a call. So then I stormed out and got yelled at some more because I stormed out, then proceeded to cry in the middle of the kitchen, despite the fact that I was two inches taller than my dad and forty years fitter. Not that violence is ever the solution. My dad kept saying how he was so sorry that I was crying and how I didn’t need to work myself up and started hugging me. I then asked if he knew why I was crying and he said, well, when people mess up, sometimes they cry, which made me stop crying and look at him. I had to explain to my at-times-clueless dad who, himself, was just having a low-blood sugar level moment, that I felt rather burdened with everything I had to do, and how his words made me feel unappreciated. I suddenly understood why my mother implodes sometimes. My dad did feel bad, and he started giving me a speech about how important it is in life to take the extra steps. I was still heaving from crying, so I didn’t say that I was trying to take the extra steps. Halfway through his speech about how when he was eight, he continued to run towards the soccer goal after kicking it in, and the ball didn’t make it but then bounced off his chest and into the goal, he realized that I was the one taking the extra steps and he had inadvertently disrespected that. So he let me pick takeout for dinner. He still must have felt bad, because he ordered chocolate cake, and then started to talk about stuff other than work, like how Taylor Swift surprised us with an album, Seth Meyers’ hair growing out, and how my grandfather on his side called me the miracle baby. I asked why, and he said because he and my mom were using condoms. 300

I thought about leaving the dinner table but we don’t really do that in my household, so I just raised an eyebrow and kept working on my cake. Little Lima There’s this underground steakhouse, or teppanyaki in Omotesando that my grandparents take us out to once every two years. Omotesando is a rather hip, metropolitan part of Tokyo, and this traditional steakhouse, Little Lima, is tucked away next to some big department building. You wouldn’t know it, walking into the basement that radiates a caveman-esque atmosphere, with yellow walls and reddish-brown leather seats, that the steak here is a gift from heaven that descendants of Adam and Eve aren’t worthy of. The chef and his son use domestic kobe beef, aged a month, that they grill in front of our eyes when we sit at the counter. It’s a family-run business, making the meal not just a delicacy, but an experience. The chef, in his seventies, is a very tan, thin man with a crooked smile and confusing Okinawa (islander) accent. If he were in LA he would be the man in his seventies, surfing 20 foot high waves. His son is a city version of his father, also tan and tall, but with side-swept hair and a transactional smile. Watching them cook is like watching table tennis at an Olympic level; they work as a seamless team in front of the counter. Even if you didn’t know them, you’d know they were father and son. They place bricks of beef on the burning metal connected to the wooden countertop, and slice the meat when it’s cooked. The older chef, Nakazone-san, will take the middle pieces and place them on my grandmother’s, my aunt’s, and my plates. As he places the bite sized meat, cooked bronze on the rim and tie-dyed to pink on the inside, with juices seeping through, he’ll wink and whisper, “Because you ladies are my favorite.” Halfway through the meal and after a glass and a half of wine, my grandpa, who sits to the right of me, will lean in, and before he’s fully finished chewing, say, “This is where your mother introduced us to Dan.” He’ll forget that he’s told me that every time we’ve gone, since I was two, and I’ve never questioned it. But one summer, when I’m around twelve, I’ll ask, “Did you meet him here because Mami said he was the real deal?” I think I had just learnt how much each course cost. “Dan was the first guy Mami ever brought home,” my grandpa will say. Miracle Baby My mom had me when she was 43. She met my father when she was 41, at an art gallery where she was helping her friend from college for the night. He was wearing hiking boots and a ragged T-shirt when he plucked lettuce from her breast, and introduced himself. “I think my parents had given up on me finding someone,” my mom will say fifteen years later, when she is drunk and happy. Koto It’s another humid summer night, and I go next door to deliver the leftover potato salad to my grandparents. I give it to my grandpa, remind him to put it in the fridge because it has mayonnaise in it, and he nods but I’m not sure if he heard me. “I doubt he heard you,” my grandmother says sharply. “He always nods, and says yes, yes, but he doesn’t really care to listen.”

She says that with a glint in her eyes, so I laugh at her dagger-like words, and she laughs, as if she meant it as a joke. We both know she didn’t, which only makes it funnier. “Come here, I have something to show you,” my grandmother hobbles up and leads me out of the air-conditioned room and to her sticky hallway. At the edge of the elevated platform (because there’s a step from where you take off your shoes to where you can be barefoot in Japanese apartments) there’s a shiny department store bag holding a bundle of decaying paper. She pulls out a stack of old booklets, each page yellowish and brown towards the edges, bound by navy blue string woven through the three holes. The papers are hard but crumbly, due to decades of sitting in a forgotten attic, decomposed so they resemble thin, soggy graham crackers. Pieces of paper crumple from the bottom of the pages , swallowed by the cold granite floor. I sat down at the edge of the hallway next to her, letting my feet smush my grandfather’s leather shoes. My grandmother scrolls carefully to the middle of the top book, opening it left to right, the way you do with old Japanese books. She opens the page to an array of rectangles, like a stretched out bingo square, with a growing ivy of a brown stain at the base . In the boxes, numbers are listed vertically and underlined, mainly in black pen but with occasional scratches with red ink. Despite the stain of old age, the written characters remain pristine and clear. “This is the music for koto,” my grandmother says, a faint smile of pride dancing on her lips. “We played music from this.” I am immensely confused. “Are the numbers, like, do-re-mi-fa-so? What do the numbers mean?” “The numbers are the thirteen strings in the instrument,” she explains, then pulls her glasses off to look at me. “I don’t think I’d be able to play, now, with the current notes and music.” I look in awe at the list of numbers written in Japanese kanji, in box after box that I read as measures. Occasionally I see an f, or mp, hints of a musical language I can understand. I look closely, and notice the marks and kanji in red ink are written in the same handwriting as the printed black numbers. I point, and look up at my grandmother inquisitively. “This is transcribed,” she explains, putting her glasses back on again. “There weren’t many books printed back then, especially the more advanced pieces, so we had to transcribe the music onto our own sheets and play from that.” “This is your writing?” I ask. “It is.” I sit back and just stare at the open page of music for the traditional Japanese instrument. I think of the marks I make on my own music with my number 2 pencil, sitting against the little stand on the piano, the music that’s starting to brown and fray as well, from the wear and tear of my and my mother’s use from years ago. I think of all the red strings I cut on the little box of a metronome. I think of all the tears shed over the black and white keys, the f-words bounced off Chopin’s Black Keys etude. “Oh this,” my grandmother says, “this is the teaching license. Oh dear, it’s been gnawed at by bugs.” She hands me a square certificate, her given name written on the front. “How do you read that?” I ask, pointing to her given last name. “Hijii,” she says. “I had such a pretty name before I married him.” I laugh, and open the certificate that had been folded in three. In thick brush writing, my grandmother’s right to teach koto stares back at me, dominant. Identification traits that now fit with a little black and white picture on a small card that could be mistaken for a YMCA member card, are spread across a foot-long piece of bamboo paper, decaying, but powerful. My grandmother points to a name to the left of the scrawl. “I came to Tokyo for that teacher,” she says. She looks at me again, takes her glasses off and lets them hang at her chest. “If it weren’t for that teacher, you wouldn’t exist.”

persimmons from his neighbors’ trees to feed his eight siblings and himself. He came to Tokyo to find a job in the city, and ended up taking work in the steel-trading industry that took him around the world. My grandfather uprooted his family seven times, moving between Japan and several countries including South Africa, Turkey, and the United States. My grandmother, from an affluent family in Kyushu, lost little but her innocence. Her family owned a hotel business, and therefore land, so they had food on the table and a bed to sleep in. And that was enough. She then grew up to fill the role most commonly followed in the Japanese patriarchal society; silent support of the family. My grandmother survived amongst sharks of foreign languages and customs, entertaining guests whose languages she did not speak, planning dinner parties she would not attend, and raising my mother and aunt. My grandparents could not be more different if they tried. My grandmother is meticulous, detail-oriented, and can shuffle around so quietly you only feel her presence when she snakes her head next to your ear. My grandfather, long and lanky, belongs to the wilderness, staring at the stars for hours at a time, knocking over glasses and leaving stains wherever he goes. He traveled the world while she survived; his work earned him a salary; hers, a family. It’s weird to think their common ground was their memories of crouching under school desks while bomb sirens went off. They survived on two different sides of the country, but they both were witnesses to what humans can do to one another in the name of a modern society. Privacy “He told me I was pretty,” my grandmother says, when I ask how she met my grandfather. He went up to her and told her she was pretty. I had asked her once before, and she told me it was an arranged marriage. I had heard from my grandfather that they met randomly, at a café in Ginza, and three years had passed before I tried again to get the real story. “He came up to me, told me I was pretty, and asked me to a festival at his college,” she recounts. “I’d rather be called smart,” I say. “Me too.” “So you went out with him?” I know I’m prying on the topic of romance with my grandmother. I can’t help myself. “Yes, I did, much to my regret.” My grandmother doesn’t talk to my grandfather for weeks at a time nowadays. “It’s his fault for leaving the light on,” she’ll say. “I went out with him, and at the end, he said he had to take his friend’s friend home, so he asked if I was okay going home on my own. I said okay, sure, because I always enjoyed being independent. But then it occurred to me later how rude that was, so I ran after him.” She’s laughing now. “You ran after him?” I think that’s the funniest thing in the world at that moment. “Yes. I ran after him, and said ‘No. That’s not okay’, and he was like, oh okay, and dropped off his friend’s friend with another friend, and took me home.” We’re both laughing now. I pry a little further, asking about the proposal, knowing that arranged marriages were more common in her day. She deflects, though, and I know I’ve reached my limit. I ask my mother later, to which she says, “She’ll tell you if she wants to. Privacy.” I’m glad I don’t know. I hope eventually I will, but if I know now, I know I will write it. And I know I cannot Americanize that part of her life too.

Survival World War Two created a stark divide in my grandparents’ childhoods. My grandfather lost everything in the war. He stole 301

H A L E Y J OYC E O L I V E R Visual Arts | Alabama School of Fine Arts, Birmingham, AL

Untitled (detail) Handmade canvas, canvas cloth, wire, polyester string, canvas paper, embroidery string, mix media paper, pens, markers, foam board, acrylic paint, spray paint, floral decor 2020 302

Sweet Dreams (detail) Canvas cloth, resin, wire, polyester string, tulle, plexiglass, chicken wire, paper-mache sheets, polyester stuffing, marbles, thread and needle, t-shirts, fabric pens, resin sphere molds, spray paint, acrylic paint, fabric glue, markers, pens, ink 2020 303

CHINONYE OMEIRONDI Creative Nonfiction | Cypress High School, Cypress, CA

The Evolution of An Angry Black Girl You’re in the first grade, about six years old, waiting in line to be dismissed for recess, and a girl with pretty blonde hair and crooked teeth asks if you’re bald. You furrow messy eyebrows and cross your arms. “No!” you yell. You want to make sure she hears you loud and clear over the noise of impatient first-graders ready to play. The girl with pretty blonde hair, her name is Madeline, hears you loud and clear. She doesn’t ask again. But when Daddy finally brings you home in the GMC, you look in the big mirror in Mommy and Daddy’s room and check just to make sure. You look at your brown skin, too dark to be called caramel (you’ve spent too much time in the sun), and you look at thin rows of cornrows that curve brown paths of scalp. Your cornrows lead into long braids that go down to your chest. You stare at the frayed ends and recall your quiet tears when Mommy said you couldn’t put pink and purple beads on them. When you tug at your braids, you can feel them pull at your scalp, so you know you were right, you’re not bald. You’ve explained before that they’re extensions, fake hair that the hair lady attaches to your bad hair with secret magic, and you’re starting to get tired of explaining. You wish that the Xpression hair with the picture of the pretty lightskin on the label was your real hair, shiny and soft and straight, so unlike the texture of your real hair, your real hair that you hate because it’s short and coarse and coily and you can’t flip it over your shoulder like Madeline. You have two crushes that year. The first one is named Sean. His parents are from Thailand and you like him because he’s funny and you think he has nice eyes. You sit next to him during teaching time on the carpet. He’s wearing navy blue Pumas, and instead of listening to Mrs. Grey, you trace the embroidered outline of a puma on the side of his shoe with your nail. You try to do it flirtatiously, like how the pretty movie people trace circles on people’s skin, but Sean doesn’t notice. Mrs. Grey notices though, and she gets mad and tells the whole class that you’re distracting him and moves him to the other side of the room while you try to make sure the hurt in your gut doesn’t show on your face. You never tell him that you want to be his girlfriend because you know he’ll never want to sit next to you again. You never tell him because you see him laughing with Aisha all the time. Aisha has shiny, long brown hair and pale skin. You have extensions. ***

You’re in second grade, and you’re seven now. Your new teacher is curious about you. She sits you down after class one day, and your heart pounds because you’re in trouble, you’re sure you’re in trouble and you’re scared of getting in trouble because then you’ll get a spanking or even worse a whooping and you don’t want that, you don’t want that at all. She sits you down and smiles at you and asks you about your name. “What does it mean?” she says. You tell her that Chinonye means “God is with me,” it’s an Igbo name from Nigeria. You say it quietly like it’s a secret; no one’s asked you this before. She tells you that it’s a beautiful name and you smile and say thank you; no one’s said that before. You think it’s beautiful too. You like your name, but you cry when Daddy forces you to wear an afro to school. He says it looks beautiful but what does he know? He’s bald! He combs it out with the same black pick your older brothers use, the one with metal teeth and the black-power fist at the bottom, and you get a headache from the crying and the stubborn knots in your hair. When Daddy tells you to stop crying before he gives you something to 304

cry about, you wish Mommy were here but she already left for work and won’t come back until eight. You make sure to wipe your tears and do a test smile in the mirror before you get to school so no one will say what’s wrong and Chinonye’s crying and Chinonye’s a baby. You don’t cry when your classmates ask what happened to your hair, you tell them nothing, nothing happened to it, and you smile because Chinonye’s not a baby. They say they don’t like this one, they liked the last hair better, but they all gather to touch it during recess and tell all their friends, spread the word, come touch! come feel! it feels so weird, so fuzzy, feels just like their doggy. You don’t cry when you and your friends are hanging out in the bathroom and your friend with really pretty long silky blonde hair (the kind you wish you had) and really pretty blue eyes (the kind you wish you had) asks you why your hair is so greasy and you tell her that Daddy puts Olive Oil in it and everyone looks at you with horrified, disgusted eyes and shouts eww in perfect harmony. You laugh with the smile you practiced in the mirror. You don’t cry because you’re not supposed to. You get excited when your teacher tells the class that a new student is coming. She’s African-American, she says. When you get home you skip through the house and scream, “My cousin is coming! My cousin is coming!” You think an African girl like you is coming to your class to be your best friend, but her name is Amaya. Amaya doesn’t seem very African, and you’re confused, but you try to be her friend anyways. Amaya is a little lighter than you, speaks a little different, and her hair is wavier than yours. You like Amaya. You think she’s cool. You and Amaya are friends, but you’re not as close as you want to be. She always hangs out with that pretty Filipino girl, Sarah. Sarah’s always been mean and bossy to you for no reason. Sarah stole Amaya from you so she can be mean and you don’t understand why Amaya wants to hang out with Sarah more than you. You break down after recess one day after seeing Amaya and Sarah playing handball together, you’re crying because your heart did that sinking painful thingy in your chest and you’re angry and upset and you honestly don’t wanna cry. You’re crying in the postrecess line outside the classroom while boys with tanned faces streaked with dirt and sweat and girls with sandy shorts gather under hot sun around the door in a blob that looks nothing like a line. Some ask you why you’re crying, tilt their head to get a peek of your face, and you say nothing and try to wipe your eyes before the teacher sees, but the sweatstreaked boys and sand collecting girls tell everyone in loud whispers that Chinonye’s crying, yeah she’s crying, and by the time your eyes are dry Mrs. Fabel already knows. She peers at you through concerned glasses and makes you and Amaya have a talk during silent reading time. You end up crying and sniffling during most of it because you don’t know how to put your feelings into words and you don’t even know why you’re crying because it’s not even a big deal. Amaya tells you that your nose is bleeding and you get a tissue and realize it’s just blood in your snot. You tell her that you get nosebleeds when it’s hot and she says oh. Amaya tells you that you cry too much. Mrs. Fabel comes and you say that you’re done talking. Daddy comes to school and makes Mrs. Fabel move you to a different table because you came home crying about Sarah. He doesn’t want you sitting next to her anymore. You don’t get along with your new table. You move your seat to the edge of the table so you can work alone, you tell them you don’t care

if you get chocolate or not. They look at each other with exasperated expressions that say “we don’t like her” and “she’s annoying” with telepathy that crybabies can’t hear. The girl who sits next to you lifts up her arm in a loose tank top during a story, you can see her nipple, and you tell her that’s disgusting. She ends up crying, saying that you called her disgusting, and you sit there and stare at her, anywhere but her, because you don’t know what to say. You feel bad. Everything’s okay though. Obama gets re-elected on the TV and Mommy and Daddy are happy. They bring out the apple cider and plastic cups and everyone is smiling. Your older brother gives you a piggyback around the house and you smile so much your cheeks hurt. ***

You’re in third grade, and you’re eight now. You’re officially a big girl, and you won’t cry at school ever again. Amaya moved away after second grade, but another new girl is coming to your class. Her name is Molly, and she easily becomes the prettiest girl in the third grade. She has cute dimples, long eyelashes, brown hair with blonde highlights, and a perfect smile. All the boys in your class like her on her first day, and it’s well earned, she’s funny, kind, and fashionable. You’re not particularly mad about it, you don’t really care about your looks, especially since you’re sure Jared, your second white boy crush of the year, doesn’t care about your looks either. You like Jared because he watches Regular Show and does a good Mordecai impression. He’s always nice and he teases you just the right amount so that it’s not hurtful, but it’s still funny. You’re sure the feeling’s mutual, until Golden Boy Jonas points out your gas-station-crackhead chapped lips and says, “Oh boy, I wouldn’t want to kiss those lips.” When Jared laughs and agrees with him, you don’t know how to react so you freeze in place, crying is forbidden, strictly forbidden, but the sinking painful thingy in your chest won’t allow you to smile so you stare at the colorful dots on the carpet until the sinking painful thingy fades away. You don’t really care about your looks, but Molly’s lips are always pink and soft, she wears that pink cherry chapstick that everyone has. You beg Mommy for chapstick at Target, she says next time, you don’t have chapstick money, but you want lips that Jared wants to kiss. You want lips like Molly. You’re a big girl now, and big girls need to know about how the world works. Daddy holds your hand and tells you the world is against you, against your people. You’re a big girl now so you understand, you saw the tears, the screaming, the raised fists, the fires, and the tear gas on CNN, and you learn that they don’t like your skin so you need to be cautious. If not, they’ll shoot you dead or lynch you like they do in the South, Daddy says they’re still lynching people, and you imagine it’s with a rope and a tree like the pictures in the slavery sections of the history textbook. You don’t want to die, you’re only eight. Daddy tells you in his thick Nigerian accent that the system hates you, that if you want to succeed, you have to perform better than everyone else. He tells you that the Indians and the Koreans and the Chinese don’t have two heads, so if they’re getting a hundred percent, you better get two hundred. You shake your head and promise to obey, pretend like you didn’t imagine Daddy under a rope and a tree with giant red lips and big eyes and charcoal skin. You cry and cry when you get a C plus on your history test. You don’t understand why Daddy isn’t as mad as you expected him to be. ***

You’re in fourth grade, and you’re nine now. You and your Indian friend Dhara study during recess. You always bring heaps of flashcards and she always pokes fun when you get them wrong. Your friends ask you why you’re studying instead of playing freeze tag on the grass, and you give them a fake smile and tell them that you don’t know. You don’t tell them that it’s because you have to, you really have to, because if you don’t it’ll eat away at you and leave an empty pit in your stomach that won’t go away until you fill it with a safety net of knowledge. You don’t tell them that you started crying last night at ten p.m. because you forgot about the reading test, so you memorized the whole twelve-page story in the textbook so you could finally go to sleep. You don’t tell them that you need to get two hundred percent. ***

You’re in the fifth grade, and you’re ten now. Cindy, a tall skinny mixed girl, tells you that she can see your nipples through your shirt while you play tetherball during recess. You tell Mommy and she gets you tiny pink and white bras with little bows in the middle.

You get accused of cheating with Cindy during your history rotation on a class assignment. It happens when the class is buzzing, students are talking and laughing, even though the worksheet is supposed to be independent. You get anxious when Cindy takes your paper to see what question you’re on, and you get more anxious when she doesn’t give it back. When she finally hands it back, Ms. Dugman, one of the student aides, announces your crime to the class like a PSA. She asks you if you were cheating like she already knows the answer. She doesn’t give you time to reply, time to defend, and she scolds you with words that hurt, words like disappointment and shame. The class buzz is reduced to silence, and they watch with entertained, pitying eyes. Ms. Dugman doesn’t think that this is enough humiliation, so she insists for Ms. J, the history teacher, everyone’s favorite teacher, to call your homeroom teacher and tell her all about it. She does so happily, and the class sits in silence and listens. You are frozen in your seat, eyes glued to your table. You can’t move, can’t dare to move, because if you do, a tear might jump out of your eye and crying is strictly forbidden. Everyone is watching you, waiting, they want to see if you’ll cry, but you won’t, you won’t allow it. Your throat chokes you and your bottom eyelid can only hold so much water, but you don’t cry. Your homeroom teacher, Mrs. Chang, pulls you aside at lunch to apologize, saying that they made a mistake, and you cry then but you don’t know why. She wants you to cheer up and stop being so sad. You nod your head and leave to finish the rest of your lunch with dry eyes and a weird feeling in your stomach. Cindy offers you a chocolate bunny in foil wrapping, you guess she feels bad too, and you take it because chocolate’s your favorite. During the last week of fifth grade, your homeroom class gets to watch movies. After The Book of Life is over, Mrs. Chang puts on National Treasure. This is one of your happiest moments; you’re smiling, laughing, and sharing popcorn with your friends. When Mrs. Chang beckons you over to follow her into the empty classroom on the other side of the wall, right in the middle of Ben and Riley’s attempt to steal the Declaration of Independence, you’re kind of excited. You’ve always liked Mrs. Chang. You think that maybe she’ll give you an award for being a good student and having good grades, or tell you something special that she can’t say in front of the other students. She closes the little door between the classes and turns to you. Instead of showering you with praise and stickers, she starts to ask you why you’ve been such a mean girl lately, why you’re so rude, why you’re so disrespectful. You don’t understand what she’s saying, you’re a nice girl, you’ve always been nice, but your teacher says you ignored Amy on the playground. She says Ms. Dugman told her that you ran from her while she was talking, and you shake your head, no that’s not true, that’s not what happened—are you calling Ms. Dugman a liar? You’re crying now but it’s okay because the class can’t see, they can’t hear you over National Treasure and excited laughter. You wanna go back, you wanna see if Ben and Riley got the Declaration of Independence or if the bad guys got it, but Mrs. Chang is still talking, making you into something you’re not. When she’s done, she tells you to go clean yourself up, but she doesn’t give you any tissues or anything, she tells you to do it in the bathroom, so you leave that empty, dark classroom and walk around the building to the girls’ bathroom to blow your nose and wipe your eyes with scratchy toilet paper. You do a test smile in the mirror before you go, and give your friends the same smile when you return to class. They ask you in whispers what happened and you shake your head. You tell them nothing, nothing happened. You try to enjoy the movie but you have no idea what’s going on. ***

You’re in sixth grade, and you’re eleven now. You want to be a nice girl, a nice, cool girl that everyone can relate to, so you go home and memorize Taylor Swift and Meghan Trainer so you can sing all the lyrics when they play it in the morning. You beg Auntie Happiness to buy you that black beanie that says FRESH in capital white letters and you wear it to school with your freshest outfit: a black top, blue jeans, and a red, plaid button-up tied around the waist. You wish you had Timberlands like in the Post To Be music video, but sneakers will have to suffice. Evelyn compliments you on your outfit, she says she likes your style, and you feel happy. 305

You’re more comfortable with wearing an afro now. All your friends say they like it, they like the way it feels, and you stop caring about whose hand is in your hair anyways, saying no wouldn’t be nice. Your friends tell you before class starts that you shed too much, that they find your hair everywhere, on the tables, on their clothes, inside books, and they don’t say it’s disgusting but they say it with their eyes, and you smile the smile you practiced in the mirror. No one else in the school has the same hair as you, coily and ugly, so it wouldn’t be hard to tell who the black, springlike strand of hair belongs to. Yet, one boy approaches you while you grab something from your empty classroom (PE is starting soon) and asks you if your afro is a wig. You laugh with the smile you practiced in the mirror, being nice is important, and tell him no, it’s not a wig, why would you think that. You keep smiling when he tells you that people said that it was because of your headband, and you smile when you tell him that makes no sense. Your friend Cindy tells you about a mixed boy with green eyes, curly brown hair, and golden skin that goes to her church. His name is Malachi. She says that he’s funny, nice, and always stands up during worship and raises his hands to God. She gives you updates about him every week, and you’re not even sure if she’s telling the truth, but she says you can have him. You’ve decided that you’re done liking the whites and the Asians. You want to like your people, so you like this boy, this boy named Malachi. You like him a lot, you really like him, maybe even love. You think about Malachi every night before you sleep, pretending he’s holding you kissing you loving you. You love him and you’ve never seen him. You fall in love with blurred features of green eyes and golden skin. You fall in love with an image you make in your mind, a boy you’re not sure exists. You want to like your people, but you tell your teacher that you don’t know how to say your middle name because you’re embarrassed. Mgbahuru. (mm·bah·hoo·roo) Daddy tells you that your people, the Igbos, are smart, so so smart. He says it’s in your blood. You take the entrance exam for the second best school in the state, receive a letter of rejection, and cry yourself to sleep for two weeks. You do it under your pink Disney princess blanket, so Cinderella’s the only one who sees you cry. ***

You’re in seventh grade, and you’re twelve now. Now that you’re in junior high, you hear and see a lot, so you know more about the world than you did when you were eleven. You learn about Tamir Rice, Eric Garner, and Michael Brown, you learn about Black Lives Matter and systemic racism, but you kinda already knew about the systematic racism though. You get into arguments with strangers in Instagram comment sections about cultural appropriation and reverse racism, typing out paragraphs only to be called stupid and bitch at the end of it all, left with no sense of accomplishment. You make new friends who are all curious about you. They ask questions like is that a weave and what are you and I knew you weren’t just black. You have many new classes, and Art is your favorite not because your teacher grabs your hair as you leave the room and insists on knowing how crotchet twists work and how do you wash it and wow they’re so beautiful; you find no fault in his curiosity, you just wish he’d let go of your hair. Art is your favorite class because your friends are the funniest people on Earth, but when Darren tells a story about how his friend says he likes black girls because they’re thick, the laughter is awkward and choppy. You and your friends in Art trade snapchats and Instagram usernames. Your snapchat name is chiyoncé with a diamond emoji because you wish you were Beyoncé, you wish you were beautiful with light skin, good hair, and a big ass. Mommy and Daddy think you’re beautiful, but it’s not enough because boys don’t like you, until Darren texts you on Instagram and asks if you have feelings for him, except he plays it off when you get scared and claims his friends took his phone. You go home and realize that Donald Trump the Businessman is now the leader of the most powerful nation in the world. You watch clips of his pep rallies on the news, you watch his followers call Obama a nigger, you watch your parents’ somber faces, and realize that this is the start of something new, something bad for your people. ***

You’re in eighth grade, and you’re thirteen now. Eighth grade is the start of your anger and the start of your sadness. You’re angry at the world, 306

angry at humanity, angry at society, angry at adults, angry at ignorance, but most of all, you’re angry at yourself. You’re angry at ignorance, so you educate yourself and write a speech about why your non-black classmates shouldn’t be saying the n-word and shout at them for eight minutes behind a podium in front of your Speech and Debate class. They tell you that it was powerful, moving, and their guilt prompts them to consult you in the middle of class: Is ninja okay? Is niBBa okay? What if it’s a text message? What if it’s in a song? You ask them why the fuck they want to say it so bad, except you don’t curse because you’re still trying to be nice. You’re angry at society because your friend has bulimia, she wants to be slim thick skinny, and you start crying while she tells you and your friends in PE because you’re helpless, so helpless that it hurts. You’re angry at humanity because a kid just shot up a school in Parkland and killed seventeen kids who might as well have been your sister, you’re angry because the mother of a girl at your school got shot in Las Vegas, and you’re angry at adults because they love love love their precious guns, their lovely semi-automatic rifles, their lovely murder machines. You’re angry at yourself because all you can do is post on your story, send thoughts and prayers; you’re angry because you’re a fraud who’s too scared to practice what you preach, laughing when your friends joke about your brother’s dark skin in the night, laughing when your friends say a black boy in your English class looks just like a gorilla. You want to like your people but you can’t fight for your people—you’re angry in silence. You’re angry because you’re tired, so tired of being nice, so tired of not crying, so tired of crying, so tired of needing to cry, tired of two hundred percent, tired of speaking with your inside voice, tired of smiling, tired of bottled rage, tired of hating yourself and your skin and your body and your features, tired of wanting to be someone else, tired of wanting to blow the Earth up and protect it at the same time. Everything’s okay though, Mommy makes fufu and egusi soup for dinner, your favorite. You forget your anger as spicy swallow travels down your throat and warms your insides. note: various names were changed for privacy

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ASEN KIM OU Design Arts | Cate School, Carpinteria, CA

Post-pandemic Portable Isolation Units Digital work / Rhino, Lumion, Photoshop 2020 308

Post-pandemic Portable Isolation Units / Module system Digital work / Rhino, Lumion, Photoshop 2020 309

K AT H E R I N E O U N G Spoken Word | Alexander W. Dreyfoos School of the Arts, West Palm Beach, FL

the vanishing act I kiss a girl in the middle of the forest no witness but the cicadas the sky black as rot overtaking a felled tree we incant ourselves unseeable cloak ourselves invisible before November can break our necks on the boulders lining the creek the next morning in the locker room, we are a phantom under the fluorescents a secret tucked behind my braid I show everyone pictures of the silver dress I’ve picked for the school dance and she runs laps in the gymnasium without glancing my way this week’s gossip is about Oscar, the sophomore whose parents pulled him out of class after he told them about his boyfriend Alfred everyone swears they saw Oscar last night in town, violet bruise blooming across his cheek I kiss a girl under winter’s moon, the telephone poles glowing like ley-lines did you know these buildings were erected over a haunted place? they called him the 1-95 killer, who murdered gay people in the 90s up and down the Florida interstate three hours from here in orlando a gunman undid the pulse of a nightclub’s beating bright heart, so I unhinge my hands from hers to keep our whitened bodies from being exhumed out of the jaws of another grave the girl and I spend so much time performing evaporation, that our bodies grow unfamiliar with visibility how rotten it is to be ghosts while still breathing this vanishing is a time-worn trick with the same themes my long-dead gay ancestors will tell you how many quiet touches and averted eyes litter their way through history broken bones of every queer body that dared to glow under the eye of history when you’re queer it feels like invisibility is the only assurance of survival what touch is a transgression? where can we meet except when hidden from the scene?

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it takes me seven months, no, it takes me seventeen years to end this affair with vanishing I kiss my girl on the boardwalk, and under the blistering june sun, our translucent skin sloughs off in sheets like we are moths emerging from chrysalis finally we are flesh again collarbone and capillary and blood and girl muscle and rib cage and sinew my girl two girls us gay girls so feverish for love as not a secret but a raucous declaration I don’t want to be an apparition anymore, don’t want fade to mist at the first trace of light I kiss my girl in front of the tourists and the beachgoers as if to say we exist, we are here and this is the proof how wondrous it is to uncloak ourselves from invisibility and marvel at the act of being seen

Bearing Fruit my mother never says “I love you” in Chinese in mandarin, the trio of characters wŏ ài nĭ stumble like unfamiliar travelers rarely seen my mother never says “I love you” but peels a pomegranate for the family come Sunday’s evening back arched over her hands, cracking open its bone marrow skeleton to scoop a bowl of glimmering red seeds in middle school I yell during every argument “why can’t you be like other parents?” so my father tells me about his father’s father’s farm in Yuyao he says after monsoon season, the foothills erupted with persimmon-laden trees, says his grandaunt would press her sun-browned hand in his own, and the whole clan would pick fruit along the terrain in America, I watch white families on TV and imagine that in every household but the immigrant’s, endearment is woven into conversation so effortlessly my father says after sundown, the kids would gather with gūpó to indulge in a harvest day’s feast what is love but all the cousins together, cross-legged and huddled close cheeks bursting with persimmon juice each bite a small, shining blessing when my wàigōng dies my grandfather on my mother’s side I have two tongues but no words for grief my family both rooted and unmoored the three of us stuck in the land of the free so I bike to the oriental market and buy buckets and buckets of lychee which we sit on the patio together to eat—mother, father, daughter mama, baba, băobèi did you know that the ridged shells of lychee are brilliant red, a celebration and their flesh is white for mourning you say every Asian father is hard-mouthed every mother tiger-tongued but my māmā, she cuts ripened mangoes and fans the fruit out like blooming flowers on a plate my bàba, he rinses a colander of fresh blueberries over the kitchen sink bowls upon bowls clang in a tender refrain this routine of bringing fruit to each other, an offering blackberries in the summer and peaches for the spring, mangosteen for fortune and papayas for apology what is love but peeling ribbons of acrid skin, tossing stones and seeds, so someone else will only taste the sweet

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K R I S T E N PA R K Poetry | High Technology High School, Lincroft, NJ

ode to brooklyn somewhere far from here, dragon fruit unravels under a gnawed moon splattered in seeds, lychee juice claws through your fingers. but beside your feet lies dehydrated gum stitched onto concrete, the color of bruises. here, where you can almost touch echoes. in coney island, bare feet rough like tree bark. you trace into sand like veins ploughing through earth, this boundary: a strand of clay that remembers when you drink sweat and dirt, when you dive your sticky fingertips into pools of mere dimes and nickels. this is where you streak floors on hands and violet knees, where the skin on your back calcifies, cotton melding into flesh. your spine travels sideways like a sore train piping beneath graves and accelerating into a million forgotten stomachs, until the jade walls start vibrating with our aching names in a language we cannot forget. we have been forged like the bridge that droops across the east river, the one we stroll onto at dawn when we forgive ourselves for choosing to blister instead of burn. here, we huddle together like tender apartment buildings, finding each other, arching. here is where we fall in between the same cracks, slip through the seams of raw leather floorboards, through iron window bars leaking memories of another life, the other cosmos. we reach our faces out the window so that we might be seen, so that we can lick the top of a single

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avenue and might taste the other side, like durian clogging our coarse throats, lychee juice clawing through our fingers. we chew on steamed rice and swallow carefully this little town we’ve created for us. like home seeping through the cracks, we are overgrown weeds of brooklyn sidewalk, crawling toward concrete and smothered with glory.

our bodies, recoiling i. stumbling on a highway in the center of time, perhaps somewhere near home. this night is heavy under blankets of miles, and i’m shivering below a verrazano bridge, the last life, attempting to suck in remaining oxygen molecules like lost revolutions of sun. you carve your chest open, hold your thumping heart in those curious palms. i told you it is useless to break willingly, but we’ve stumbled, preparing eternity with rusty fingertips. ii. the act of devouring our flesh like sour things, mineralizing from the open field. this is how it must feel to be created within earth and compost, slashing myself down the center and splitting like a seed. if i could swear on the bones of your body, if i could visit again those strange gravel roads, forgive your eyes for granting diffusion of my breath. because i hate the way you pretend to be me, and the way i still think i taste the sugar beneath my feet. iii. an inferno, grazing carbon from billions of years ago, the same storm you have dribbled from your lips, the one that ricochets toward my body, brimming with the same grief. it sits in a basis of construction where the blaze must continue on, always reckless at the hush of its core, its birth. will this end in the smothering of humus, of the captain in the crust? will the gravel peel away when it finally razes our shell? carcass of a ship—lost in the flesh of inferno. iv. only you and me, wondering if we could rip taste buds from the bellies of our tongues.

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IS PERLMAN

Spoken Word | Design and Architecture Senior High School, Miami, FL

Untitled Passing Poem I want to pass as transgender. I want to pass as a liminal space sixteen years of wishing for something else. I want to pass as palpable confusion a boy with earrings the strangers I’ve made eye contact with on the train. I want to pass as redemption for every second I’ve lived before this one as forgiveness and possibility a hunger for the future that I formerly did not know trembling that grew into a roar waiters calling me sir without flinching my voice feeling deep in my throat handsome unafraid a force to be reckoned with departure from who I was before but also a return to who I have always been, standing in the door frame neither entering nor leaving the glass that separates your fingertip from its reflection a bridge between my limbs self-assured a deserted island on which I am the only inhabitant a masterpiece of my own creation. I want to pass as manifestation, as embodiment and documentation. I want to pass as letting myself breathe.

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A CIRCLE MARKS THE POINT AT WHICH MY JEWISHNESS AND TRANSNESS MEET AS ONE I would like to buy a kippah to have a circle of cloth upon my head, a holy bandage on my scalp I don’t know if I’d wear it outsideto school or to the store or to the cafe where I do homework CONCERNS: -I tuck in my necklace sometimes (the one with six corners), depending on where I am and what I feel but -you cannot tuck the hypothetical kippah it is decisive and exposed

I think I want to believe too, in the almighty in myself in the idol that is self in shameful and sacrilegious hope, hope that is corrupt but necessary to preserve and protect. I think buying a kippah might be the first step.

I don’t know if I’m ready to make a decision like that, to be THE SOUND OF A LANDING PLANE bold and courageous and exposed and FLUENT IN THE LANGUAGE OF ICE TO SKIN, Naked even with flesh, covered by skin and hair and cloth. at the same time I think my kippah could be something redeemable I naively hope that such a gesture would absolve me of (or lessen) my sin of yearning for different flesh, flesh that is not my own for the self and upon the self to touch with / to be touched by maybe this kippah would prove that despite my sins and adherence to abominance I still believe in and love the people who have come before me that even though I do not look like my congregation (my family is the only one questioned at security) (my peers are shocked when I remind them that I am a Jew but when my white classmates echo the sentiment it is under agreement that it must not be questioned that their eyes are the shape of jews’ eyes and their limbs the color of jews’ limbs and even though I know this is the suburban icon that there is not a monolithic vision that THIS IS MERELY HYPOTHESIS my knowledge that I am not them haunts me and consumes me to no end) THAT EVEN THOUGH I DO NOT LOOK LIKE MY CONGREGATION I am still as worthy as the books teach me. I am worthy and authentic and my vulnerability is not mangled or feigned, This body of mine resounds with noise that is real and viable and mine to hold in a strictly carved fist fingertips huddled in silent communion skin drenched in irrevocable severity flesh crumpling at every breath. This pitch is not just for G-d. 315

ARIANNA PERÓ Spoken Word | New World School of the Arts, Miami, FL

you are city chatter and the muffled quiet of otherwise buzzingly busy and bouncing beach banter, like white noise; an artist’s mind and hands and touch; seeing myriads of different worlds, none your own and, yet, each one solely your creation, through a kaleidoscope of colors and harmonies you haven’t yet fabricated; falling in love with the characters in your mind and on the page; loving them more than uppercase-R Reality—the one out there— available to grasp and, yet, so unattractive to the likes of you and the gods that reside within your heart; counting the callouses on your hand holding rough fingers beside soft, smooth palm, and; gentle touch; the red in your veins being more reminiscent of fire than of blood; and willing against the world. journals and sketchbooks started with thoughts and ideas and non-existent universes but never once finished, in favor of another, different book; cast aside for something more; for an even fresher start; someplace new to spew your consciousness upon, each one never better than the previous, but; your hoping that this next one will be; another’s memories attached to walls not your own; trying to find possession or control through other means, in other unknown places even less so yours; ...seeking to have something, anything to your name; and in this place, your holding of another’s stories, another’s remembrances, another’s quiddity, and attempting to make them your own;

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aloof self-interest and other feline tendencies; an architect of your own imagined universes and creations; and a smile close to killer. boards gripping to once-delicate feet and once-complete soles now wholly worn out; swimming right past my eyes; spending time in the seas of your mind; who you are never actualizing who you want to be; hoping to be noted as a sunrise instead of this constant, cool dusk; feeling the night against your skin —cold, yet scalding, like unreality; air both bittersweet and almost acidic to the tongue; lights dancing on your ceiling and flames, on your head; others living through your eyes, through your lives; even more hoping to get a chance to be observed by you; and your never once noticing. sitting patiently by the water, waiting for the waves to caress your legs; fascinating even gods; picking flowers before they can pick on you; knowing them all personally, by name; and glaring out the window; watching the world whirl by and quickly vanish, faded; witnessing lights being buried beneath clouds and the veil of a charcoal night sky, the closest you can be to the heavens; trying to feel as if you can somehow sleep with the stars, and wishing on those stars instead of candles;

laying, staring at the tops of trees for hours on end; basking in the bits of sunlight— starlight—peeking through the silhouettes of their leaves; and fingers dancing across the keys, lightly leggiero*; making music—melodies—magically and mystically melancholy and majestic; amidst spirals, spins, and swirls of harmonies arranged by color and taste; and loving. *Italian musical term meaning to play in a light manner

Cuando escucho mi nombre* My name is not a “normal” name. Es poco común, de tierras extranjeras.** Extraño, como ver la luna en la mañana.*** Or mistaking a bee for a butterfly. The same bitter taste of a sunny snow day. Arianna Peró. I was named after my mother, Oriana. Just two letters different. See, my name is Greek, for chaste or holy, but she didn’t know that. She just wanted a name like her own… Yet, I’ve never liked my name. This connection to my mother that I’ll never quite get to break—not without changing the most fundamental part of myself. My name. My title. The only thing I truly own. No, I’ve never liked my name, or the incongruous way it exits the mouths of classmates who convey it as if impedido por una vejiga**** on the tongue, twisting it into some convoluted form I can no longer stand the sound of… Countless times I’ve been told that I “don’t look like an Arianna.” No one ever spells it right. (Two n’s, not one). No one can pronounce it. (“Are-ee-aw-nuh, Airy-aw-nuh... There is no “air” in my name.) And my surname… No one understands that it’s not synonymous with “dog” or the “but” in “pero like,” or that I’m unflattered by the tired jokes that come with the uncanny misnomers of a word as simple as… Last year, I started writing it with the accent it always had but that I never thought it deserved. No, I’ve never liked this name; not only its individual components, you see, but the weight of it all, combined. Yes, the weight of everything that comes attached. Yes, and the way it’s utilized in othering me, unintentionally, or, possibly, with awareness of its incorrectness even yet...; identity butchered and misshapen, battered down; each time made more unattractive despite all these attempts to regain ownership; urging me to give up trying, to, simply, accept the Americanization and assimilation of a title yet too foreign for this land—do you understand?? And, yet, here I stand, still fighting contra la corriente*****, trying to make it, once again, mine. When I first wrote this piece, it was phrased as an apology. My name was an apology. But I shouldn’t have to feel sorry or give up control—give up my name—to those who can’t handle its heat. My name is spicy. Sassy. Meant to be spoken with a thick accent your white ears may not initially comprehend. With a bright “a”. With a rolled “r”. Three syllables, not four. Ah. Rya. Na... I’ve never liked this name. Too many “-riannas” in my family, or elsewhere scattered in between the folds of my life. Arianna, Oriana, Brianna, Lorianna, Marianna, Adriana, y mas. What difference does my drop of blue make in a raging sea of crimson? One star dying in an already established galaxy of billions, a universe of trillions upon trillions? What meaning hides there, if any at all? So, mi nombre sigue siendo Arianna Peró.****** But I’ve never liked my name.

* “When I hear my name” ** “It is uncommon, from foreign lands.” *** “Strange, like seeing the moon in the morning.” **** “impeded by a blister” ***** “against the current” ****** “So, my name continues being Arianna Peró.”

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FELICITY PHELAN Spoken Word | Harvard-Westlake School, Studio City, CA

again and again and again When your physics teacher calls you “she”— or, let me start over— when your physics teacher, who’s a great guy, by the way, good rapport between you two, very smart, PhD— when he calls you—who’s wearing a dress, and lipstick, and has this doting, eager, saccharine, valley accent— when he calls you “she”, I mean, what is there, really, to say? You could stay quiet (which is womanly), could interrupt—”they!”—which is bitchy (womanly) or say it meekly (also womanly) or talk to him privately (womanly) about your feelings (womanly) and start crying— When I checked the “Other” box on a form one time it said, “Please describe your gender identity as best you know how.” Sure. I identify as beast bones buried in the mire, some creature from the Pleistocene, a derelict splinter off the evolutionary tree / my gender is bile summoned to the throat, is arms stitched on backwards, a word too aquatic and too foreign to be cupped by the tongue / my gender is a Cinderella story: at midnight, the wish-gown boiled, melted off of her, left her sweet skin scalded, raw and scabbing, that night, she spent hours in front of the mirror and marveled despite herself: How supple, how placid the torn-open body could be released from any pretense of splendor.

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Private Property This year, I build a home for my body. I’m thinking…one of those nice, Spanish-style ones, you know—with the smooth, white walls and the courtyards and the ripe, round oranges teetering on the limp wrists of trees. Because she deserves it, you know? Because the house is my apology, is my bouquet of pink carnations, is my we were ten years old when we learned men with gray beards and hard eyes would mistake our childlike roundness for fecundity for asking for it. How my solution to this problem was to gouge the lushness out of you It is my apology for thinking that to be no curves, all sharp edges, was to be unassailable; that there was any way to make us a weapon they would not want to hold— I think a beachfront property is worth looking into. If only to serve as a reminder that the way she swells after meals is no defilement, but mere mimicry of moon-pulled ocean and that nights spent fetal on bathroom linoleum are not a too-tight dress you wear forever, just the crests of passing waves. She’ll take guests most evenings. Not just anyone, of course; Not the man in the airport Or the one from the museum Or the ones who speed down Coldwater shouting from their cars; but her grandmother, who makes the best pork buns she’s ever had, who smiles and says, “Wow, did you lose weight?” every time she sees her because femininity allows no other translation for you are so beautiful to me. This year I give my body everything she could ask for— lots of dogs, walk-in closet, swimming pool— but more important than what she will have is what she won’t: no watchful eye of her mother wondering if she really needs all those carbs / no emasculated boyfriend decrying her size / no squeezing through tiny gaps between walls and tables / no apologies for the inconvenience of her motion or her presence / no fucking Brandy Melville and no me. Having starved and sliced and scorned her I deserve no custody. Though I hold out hope for a postcard— her lounging poolside, stomach overflowing from a cherry-red bikini and on the back two words in our hand: Private Property

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MICHAEL PINCUS

Creative Nonfiction | Alexander W. Dreyfoos School of the Arts, West Palm Beach, FL

—TRACING STARS Y What kind of button-up shirt has no damn collar? After I saw the message asking me to go out and meet him for the first time, I spent an entire hour deciding if the button-up shirt with no collar was too weird to wear. And then, of course, I scrapped that entirely and spent another fifteen minutes deciding whether I could wear the floral shirt that’s missing the top button. I decided to go for it. It exposed more of my skin. Sex appeal, right? Sure, but there’s that one freckle spaced equally between my nipples that drives me crazy. Sometimes I try to peel it off. Grandma’s chain used to cover that. We were going out for frozen ices. I couldn’t stop rubbing my thumb. I kept re-tucking my shirt and fixing the blousing. Somehow, I got myself into the passenger seat of my mom’s Prius. YYY

When my grandmother died, she left me a gold Star of David chain necklace. I wore it around my neck every day from then on, and each time I rubbed the star between my thumb and pointer finger I thought about her, and the memories we had shared. There was a time when she was very sick, but I hadn’t known it, and she took me to Lion Country Safari. Most people know it as that zoo they mentioned in Tiger King, but to me, it will always be my last real memory with Grandma. I hadn’t realized she was trying to give me as many good memories with her as possible before her illness led to closed hospital doors. I was a naive fourth grader. It was a day at the zoo to me, and nothing more. I thought about that day every time I rubbed the golden star around my neck. But one day, several months after her passing, it disappeared. As suddenly as fourth grade I learned that my grandmother was sick, the chain necklace was gone, no longer on my nightstand where I would leave it when I slept. YYY

I went without the chain. He’ll have to deal with that fucking freckle. So there I was, fixing my hair in the rear-view mirror in the parking lot of the frozen ice place. I hated my mother’s Prius. I hated that she had to drop me off. She kept asking me questions about who these friends were. I deflected her questions until I got a message from Abbie. She was grounded. She was not joining us anymore. I was supposed to go inside and meet her two coworkers, one of whom was him, without Abbie being there to break the ice. What the hell, Abbie? YYY

It could have been stolen. Maybe it was simply misplaced. Perhaps it had fallen into the crack between the nightstand and my wall, to be swallowed by my cat during her evening hunt. Maybe it vanished into thin air.

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Once a person’s gone, it’s like their spirit is reborn into objects. My grandmother lived through that Star of David necklace. But what happens when you lose those objects? Do you lose the person? Is the casket finally buried for good? Now to be clear, that necklace was no fashion statement. The chain was too thin, the charm wasn’t particularly appealing, and why did there have to be a circle around the star? Still, it felt like Grandma was here, with me, guiding me. When she passed, I was at such a young age that it is difficult to remember her—but that gold charm reminded me of her face, her voice, her dyed red hair, her smile, her presence, her cuddles and hugs, and lunch at the country club. YYY

I approached the place awkwardly as my mom pulled away, and then after a moment turned back to see how far her Prius had already gone. That’s when I saw two teenagers across the parking lot, leaning against a black Mini Cooper. I don’t think they knew the car was still on. I could tell it was them. Fuck it. I started walking toward them, and then he was waving at me. He was a hugger, and I was pulled into his hoodie before we even made eye contact. His coworker was a hugger too, but I wasn’t paying much attention to her. I told them that the car was still running. “Shit,” he said. We went inside. The frozen ice was perfect for a humid night in Florida. I don’t remember his order, but I got pink lemonade. The three of us were going to play Cards Against Humanity. Abbie was the one who suggested it. “It’s the ultimate ice breaker,” she had said. I wondered if she was really grounded. His coworker left to go to the Subway next door. She had worked an extra shift and wanted a late dinner. So he and I were left at the outside tables, sitting and eating our frozen ices. It was silent for a while. “Do you like it here?” “Bahama Bucks? I mean sure, the ices are good.” “I meant South Florida. Abbie said you want to move away for college. Are you gonna miss it?” His coworker came back before I could reply. Cards Against Humanity began. Abbie was right: we got to know each other between the simple flip of cards. We laughed a lot. The kind of laughing that makes you feel alive. After a while, the game was just there to keep us sitting around. We had gotten really deep in conversation. We talked about siblings and schoolwork and childhood and whether our parents were strict. Somehow, he managed to bring up his sex position, which meant I had to tell him mine, because that’s what queer guys do. We started to get tired of the game. And then it started to rain. It had been an hour or two. We leaned into goodbyes. I was ready to call my mom to pick me up, or maybe Uber home. But then he offered me a ride.

YYY

I know it’s silly, but every time I think about what happened, I am drawn back to the fact that I no longer had my grandmother’s chain. I didn’t have her there. Did she see what he did to me?

The day my rapist left my house with a train ticket back to Orlando, I took a long, cold shower. I cried. I didn’t know I was starting a new habit. After drying off, I went scrambling through my sock and underwear drawer. I was looking for the old boxers I used to wear at sleepaway camp. My newer, tighter Calvin Kleins made me feel dirty.

I remember what we ate. I remember what I drank. I remember how much I drank. I remember everything about the night that it happened.

That wasn’t the only reason I was in that drawer. I had his underwear in my hand. The pair he wore the night that he did what he did to me.

I also remember every excruciating minute of riding in the limousine to Grandma’s funeral. I remember holding my mother’s hand. I remember the Rabbi’s sermon. I remember the gold charm on the gold chain placed in my palm, my numb fingers curling around it. I don’t even remember what I had for lunch today. Memory is weird that way.

People ask me why I kept his underwear. You want the answer? The honest one? The uncensored, disgusting one? There are traces of his seed in them. He tossed them under my bed after finishing, and then put on a different pair. Keeping that was a way of actualizing what happened to me.

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He played Christmas music while he drove me home. His Mini Cooper gave me the same kind of comfort that my bed used to give me before what happened to me. “Santa Baby” started to play. We made it to my driveway. We sat there for a bit. “Why do you look so nervous?” The last time I was alone like this with a boy, he raped me. “Just am. Don’t worry about it.” Then I grabbed his face and brought him into a kiss. He bit my lip softly and moved his hands to my neck. We were crammed in the front seat of his Mini Cooper—a notoriously small car—but there was still so much new space to fill with each movement of our bodies. A hand on my inner thigh. A sudden noise from outside the door... a nervous laugh into each other’s mouths. We pulled back and I looked into his eyes. His eyes said “curfew.” And then there was this feeling. There was this warmness in my chest. Could it be that damn freckle? No. The warmth was coming from the spot where the gold star used to rest. It was the first time in years that I felt that there. “Here Comes Santa Claus” started to play. I reached for his hand. He thought I was trying to hold it. I grabbed his pointer finger and tugged it gently toward me. I brought it to my chest. “What are you doing?” I touched his finger to the warm spot. Slowly, I slid it up in a diagonal movement. Then, I slid it down in the opposite direction. “Am I supposed to guess what you’re drawing?” I felt like I was in a trance. I heard what he was saying, but I did not pay much attention to it. I slid his finger in a horizontal line and connected the final two points. It was a six-pointed star. The Star of David. For the record, no, we did not have sex in his Mini Cooper. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to do that after what happened. After a few wrong guesses of what I was drawing, we kissed again. And then it was time for him to go. He drove off to the giddy-up of “Sleigh Ride.” We never met again. That’s not the point. The point is that I felt safe in that moment, alone with a boy. It was a feeling that I never thought I’d feel, alone with a boy, ever again. YYY

I remember what it felt like to have my drunk head held down, knowing that I could do nothing other than sink further into his crotch. I shoved his underwear under all of mine. I made sure it was covered with as many other pairs as possible. YYY

After I watched his Mini Cooper leave my cul de sac, I went inside and straight up to my room. I could not believe what had just happened. I knew I had to go into the drawer. I had to get rid of the pair of underwear once and for all. And that’s when I found it. The Star of David necklace, in all its glory, sitting beneath dozens of pairs of socks and briefs. I picked up my grandmother’s necklace. It hadn’t been worn in a long time. It was smaller than I had remembered. I imagined it fitting too tightly around my neck. I walked over to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. Cautiously, I pulled the chain behind my neck and secured it. I let the Star of David fall down onto my chest. It was warm there again. But there was something else now. Something that I swear was more than my imagination. I felt his finger tracing it. The six points. Over and over again. I was crushed when he told me it was a one-time thing. Now I can’t fucking stand Christmas music. But I think about his eyes. I think about his lips. I think about how safe I felt. I think about how he was gentle. I remember my grandmother’s smile. The kind of rare squinty-eyes smile that you only make when you’re really, really happy. I remember a good amount of my elementary school friends showing up to my house for my grandmother’s Shiva calls. I played manhunt with them outside. They must have known they were cheering me up. Children understand emotions better than adults. I remember comments on how beautiful her necklace looked on me. I remember, just this morning, putting it on in the mirror. I used to look in the mirror and see a naked and intoxicated body. I used to see sweat, and dried white stains, and tears dripping from my face all the way to my groin. But after that night in the Mini Cooper—after I found Grandma’s necklace—I started seeing something else. Now, I see a stronger me. I see myself waking up to breathe another morning’s air. And I see that damn freckle halfway between my nipples.

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I wonder if I’ll be a little bit less nervous with each new experience. Will what happened to me eventually fade out of existence? Will trusting boys become easy? Will it become careless? I know one thing. Whenever I feel unsafe, or afraid, or detached from my own body, I can bring my finger to my chest. I can slide it in diagonals and horizontals. Now, with the necklace, I can trace the charm itself. If that’s what it takes to make it to the next day, then so be it. I won’t let myself slip back into those cold showers. I won’t cry out to God in desperation anymore. His underwear is gone. And life goes on. But if when I wake up in the morning and stand in the mirror I feel afraid, just like I did today, I’ll trace those six points. I’ll remind myself that I will feel safe again soon. I’ll trace stars.

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SCARLETT PINKEY Photography | Harvard-Westlake School, Studio City, CA

Mother and Daughter iPhone camera 2020 324

Hidden from Sight Digital photography 2020 325

MICHELLE QIAO Spoken Word | Leland High School, San Jose, CA

There is No Prayer for You, Chang'e The goddess Chang’e flies to the Moon as her husband shoots down nine suns in pursuit.

Most of the time, she sleeps tethered to the Moon Man’s cheekbone— look up, and imagine her eyes born addicted to the man that binds her feet and tightens her tongue and whitens her skin until she cannot move until she cannot speak until her face snaps into the dust, swallowed so deeply Neil Armstrong steps on her ring finger. Buzz Aldrin her face. Luna-9 misses her hair by half a leg. Her husband sits on Mars and tosses her a mooncake, drinking rice wine from a clay pot. His temples thank him for Earth’s one Sun but there is no prayer for you, Chang’e. Only cake. He gives her a rabbit for company. It pounds the elixir of immortality in a mortar, gives it to her to drink, pleading live another day! she replies: to eat another cake. My grandmother bought me that rabbit, a little plastic one I dragged around on a string. She paints the black eyes back on when they chip, ties the whiskers for me when they tangle tells me to keep it close— I lose it. She says it must have slipped back to the moon tells me to look out for it just in case it ever decides to fall all the way back down. Before the one child policy packed up my missing aunts and missing uncles my grandmother’s mother had too many children. She’s less than five feet, body thin sent in a basket to an English orphanage growing up already settling in the silt between waking up in her bed or a casket, trying to find faith in the empty bottoms of bowls— I'm alive, which tells me that miracles happen. Her mother took her back boiled one more cup of water in their rice to raise her. She didn’t graduate the tenth grade which tells me her father said why educate a girl when an education can’t feed her. I look up at the moon and ask Chang’e why she doesn’t throw down cake when she has seen my grandmother starving and she tells me that sometimes it is better to starve than to be forced to eat.

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I like to imagine she tugs her heart by the bones of her hand my rabbit at her heel and plunges in, snaps the strings in half cranks open his third eye to spit a mouthful in his face, saying Don’t give me cake get down on your knees and pray.

Gift from God My name curdles in my mouth, syllables swarm together, beaded ants at soft fruit, my name river bridged among oaks when it rains born from the death of China’s first emperor buried at the base of a mountain. My other name, French, picked off a list of Top One Hundred Baby Names for Girls 2005 solely because it rolled off my immigrant mother’s tongue which confuses bathtub for bashtub, super bowl for sugar bowl. I wasn’t named for myself. I was named prepackaged grab-and-go for America to consume. Top One Hundred Baby Name for Girls 2005 is so sweet, she means gift from God never flies off the handle bat crazy, giggles at jokes, drives with hands at ten and two rolls hot off the cookie pan cut and crimped but how can I be a gift from a God I don’t know? My last name—they pause in roll call. Look up look back down, and most of the time Top One Hundred Baby Name for Girls 2005 is kind enough to save them. She’s perfected the art of raising her hand cut them off fast say here but on other days, I sit back and start the gambling I think I’ve heard it all, but creativity is a thing that blossoms in error, consonants baptized in vowels, crucified between teeth, ten years running and they say my name like soggy saturday cereal spooning dead skin from a scab. When my paternal grandfather taught me my times tables he told me he used a single piece of paper eight times: front then back pencil then red then blue then black. My grandfather, who was frail. He had one tooth. He looked like how I imagine the old man who was shot by soldiers on a boat on a river on a page of a book he once gave me to read: San Mao was an orphan. He lived in war. He had thirty cents. He had three hairs on his head. He had the old man. His old man was shot. My grandfather looked like the old man. My grandfather was very sick. My grandfather was very far from America. My grandfather was very far from me when he died I wrote my name front then back, pencil then red then blue then black. The goddess of mercy sits in heavenly palace with feet propped up on the moon— and I’m all the way down here, nails bit clean off thinking about the saltwater river I’ll spit out for dinner. I cannot tell if she is unwilling or cruel. When she asks me why I still talk to the dead I cut my thumbs and show her the blood. I write my name and show her the page. When I ask her to bring him back she looks down through the heavens with her willow branch in her left hand and vase in her right, shaking her head as if I had honestly expected anything different. She tells me an emperor does not die for his tomb to be wrenched open at your mouth. My grandfather did not die for me to forget. I promise myself I will keep my name tuck it deep in my throat river bridged among oaks when it rains paint my self-portrait as gift from God turned mad little girl and I tell them say my name. 327

T I F FANY Q I U

Visual Arts | George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology, Baltimore, MD

Serenity Oil on canvas 2020 328

Orientation Oil on canvas 2020 329

GAIA R AJAN Poetry | Phillips Academy, Andover, MA

We Were Birds That night he wore a white shirt and leapt into the river. Didn’t surface for air. More water than body, more tide than blood. We’d just turned thirteen. After, I closed every window. The mouths of tulips broken. Beneath every oak, a lost limb. I folded hundreds of pigeons, mangled paper into a beak and a body. This poem is for how his voice cleaved the air into feathers, how I took a knife to the wall after, until a moon of light shone through the apartment, until my knuckles bled like his. Suppose I woke and saw only lightning. Suppose the birds burned their songs that summer. Suppose I speared sharks in the river. I screamed Peter which meant pray which meant please. How a name can sound like a clock. A grave in a field full of ticking. Week-old feathers. This boy, this bird— too human for this earth. Which is to say: sometimes, I don’t exist except in the universe where everyone stays alive, where wings sprout from our spines, where we have more to give than prayer. Which is to say: the morning after, I gave my bones to the water. Feathers wavering in the river. A blackbird in the oaks.

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Nostalgia is the Prettiest Liar I sit in the dark and watch a white woman cosplay 1930. She says it must’ve been simpler back then, incants it like a prayer, smiles and snaps white gloves on. They say that back then, if your hands were darker than the gloves, you were sent to a different immigration center. They say the alternate centers ordered more coffins than water. A study shows that rhesus monkeys, separated from their mothers, pick soft linen over food. The monkeys weren’t named until they died. The white woman likes old cars and borders. Says reclaim with the confidence of a guillotine. A judge, separating another child from her mother, says I don’t remember your names but I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. Calls us doomed in the same voice he lists his bills, the groceries. The white woman owns fifty pairs of ivory-white gloves. A study shows that ten people, left alone in a room, can recall their ghosts so clearly the room begins to shake, so clearly a table leg smashes against the wall, so clearly a voice from their memories wraps around them like a noose. Only some can imagine the past and see a mission. The white woman’s nostalgia flicks blond lights on in the city and rides over skyscrapers. Doesn’t see the people below, fleeing. Her nostalgia flays open a past for remaking. Her nostalgia spears peaches at the dinner table, blood seeping out onto the plate, and it drinks until crimson smears down its jaw, drinks until blood rushes to its eyes, drinks and drinks and

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ISABELLA RAMIREZ Spoken Word | Alexander W. Dreyfoos School of the Arts, West Palm Beach, FL

Mama i’m sitting on my mama’s bed and she’s on the brink of breaking down over her homework. i can see the glint of a blinking cursor in the tears glossing over her eyes as her hands search for words in a language all too foreign to her. she said i could count in both Spanish and English by the time i was 18 months old but it's taken her 21 years and counting to flatten out the unruly kinks of her language. my mama’s English is a stubborn wine stain on a white dress. she scrubs at her twisted tongue desperate to clean the spice, el cilantro, la salsa that is her accent. her accent is the tambourine she hides in the back of her mouth behind the ivory piano keys that are her teeth she speaks a merengue, bachata, ranchera, tonada1 that she mutes to make room for her English. my mama’s English gets told it's pretty good for being an immigrant to which she replies you’ve got some nerve for being a gringa2 because my mama wasn’t a stay-at-home mom for fifteen years to be told that her English needed housekeeping. the beauty of my mama’s English is that she doesn’t need it to knock your head off your shoulders call her a luchador ‘cause she can make you tap out faster than you can say her English isn’t good enough. my mama’s English is me correcting her at the dinner table it’s me laughing when she can’t find the right syllables and sounds and the words don’t fit quite right in her mouth. it’s the downturn of her lips at the expense of my smile because her English is not the punchline of a joke that’s gotten too old. my mama’s English is the piñata she got me on my 10th birthday big and bright and pink and purple

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but hollow on the inside. it’s her count to three uno, dos, tres4 as she spun me blindfolded dizzy and facing the wrong direction. it’s the swing and miss of my bat and the candy and confetti that falls in the final hit that breaks it open. it’s a game of pin the tail on the donkey no matter how many times you play you never just get it quite right. it’s the quinceñera I never had overrated and stereotypical distastefully too latina. it’s the number birthday candles that melt hot wax onto the cake she made from scratch. it’s the reason my birthday is not just a happy birthday but a feliz cumpleaños.5 it’s the reason that when i go to my friend’s parties i want to sing happy birthday twice because mama never let us blow out candles before singing en Español.6 my mama’s English is the one dollar and 35-cent Cuban coffee i drive her to get every saturday itching at the back of her throat bitter and hard to swallow only sweet from the sugar left in the foam she licks off her top lip. it’s the reason she insists the starbucks double espresso doesn’t have the same kick. it’s the reason i’m sitting on mama’s bed watching her eyes swell as she fumbles with the keys. it’s the reason she got into graduate school at 42 why i help her with her homework before i do my own. it’s why the bottom of her computer burns my lap with each oxford comma and restructured sentence and fixed grammar rule. it’s why she doesn’t end up crying when i whisper that everything will be ok. my mama’s English is the reason i can tell her in two ways that she is my everything, mi todo because her love knows no language. Types of Latin American music and dance A non-Hispanic female, usually of North American origin A wrestler 4 One, two, three 5 Happy Birthday 6 In Spanish 1 2 3

the Andes speak of death and 2020 – told in two hemispheres i. April 2020, southern hemisphere the Andes seem awfully quiet these days. Cotopaxi1 no longer writhes magma now that the streets have become volcanic. my mother sends condolences to people in Guayaquil 2 who would be lucky to have their bodies turned to ash, whose families no longer buy urns now that their sidewalks have become gravestones. the morgues in Ecuador have become so overwhelmed that families wait days before authorities can pick up the corpses on their driveways. they leave their loved ones slung like coats over wheelchairs to die at hospital doors, pack them into cardboard coffins to bury in their backyards and wrap their bodies in plastic tarp for their skin to bubble and swell under the heat like pan de dulce.3 ii. July 2014, southern hemisphere you could still hear an Andean whisper from my grandfather’s beach home in Salinas.4 i had never seen mountains before, let alone spoken to them, but they told me of the traditions of the highlands and the coast, made me promise not to tell the beaches. i didn’t know my grandfather that well but i knew he heard them too, understood their Quichua 5 imprinted in his palms that picked husks from durian trees. his voice rung baritone anytime he talked back. when my grandfather died, the mountains hushed to a lull. i wish they had told me how to deal with a grieving mother, and the guilt of not grieving with her. the only memories of my grandfather i can recall are of the last time i saw him, in Salinas, as if I had met him for the very first time, as if the photos of when he was strong enough to visit us in America and hold me meant nothing. i could tell you of the soccer ball i kicked over his electric fence, the 50-degree saltwater i could barely swim in, the cold shower i took after my brothers buried me in the shore, how the sand washed off the grooves between my goosebumps to reveal shivers and sunburns, how the last thing i remember telling my grandfather, when he asked me if i wanted cafe con leche,6 was no, how i ignored his somber eyes and sagging face. is it to late for me to say that i loved him to death.

iii. April 2020, northern hemisphere i’m only reminded of the mountains vaguely and in passing, in newspaper headlines of Ecuador as the south’s epicenter and from pictures of unclaimed bodies stacked in mass graves and mounds. i can’t tell if the photos are from Guayaquil or New York’s Hart Island anymore. peaks and troughs don’t mean what they used to, not since i’ve stared at death charts so long that i forget that they’re people, hundreds of thousands of people whose names mean nothing behind numbers, whose families’ grief was reduced to a statistic. i wonder how many people died alone with no one to remember their name. i no longer wonder why mountains tend to form in ranges and not isolated summits. iv. present day, northern hemisphere today, as i wear my mask, i am reminded of Quito, of being 9,000 ft above sea level on Andean foothills where the air was so thin and the sun so close i could barely catch my breath, of the vertigo from climbing hills so high i got nosebleeds. i want to be there, standing on the equator with both feet in each hemisphere again, feeling on top of the world, blissful in ignorance and too young to know of anything but life, but now the Andes only speak of death and 2020, and for the first time, i grieve. An active volcano in the Andes in Ecuador The largest city in Ecuador Sweet bread 4 A coastal town in Ecuador 5 An indigenous language spoken in Ecuador 6 Coffee with milk 7 The capital of Ecuador 1 2 3

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Z O E R E AY- E L L E R S Spoken Word | Interlochen Arts Academy, Interlochen, MI

Oxford English three weeks after being born my parents realized that they couldn’t put baby in place of a name on my birth certificate so my dad dug out an old notebook and they decided not to stand back up until I was defined but titles are the hardest part of a book and neither of them are writers they couldn’t use Tracy or Corey or Sam because my mom had to cover their shifts at the hospital a few months ago with only a day’s notice and also because Tracy always does her nails during lunch and while mom was pregnant with me she always threw up at the acrid scent of nail polish so that’s three less possibilities and my parents didn’t like the letters A-R and there aren’t any good girl’s names that start with U-Y and Tracy starts with a T so that really only left S and Z they smiled because that was the hard part finished right but realized their folly the moment they opened the 20$ lightly used baby name dictionary it stared back at them with 836 S names and 301 Z names so my dad closed his eyes and pointed at Zoe /zoh-ee/ noun a female given name: from a Greek word meaning “life” I didn’t question my name for a long time didn’t mind the two syllables liked how I shared a first letter with zucchini zesty zeppelin didn’t like how there were three other girls in my class with the name Zoe except theirs was spelled with a y at the end which I thought looked stupid but then I was the odd one out and I became Zoe-without-a-y and that was the end of it except it wasn’t because suddenly Zoe was too small to contain hair too short shoulders not broad enough and yes I know that’s cliche but sometimes that’s ok right because other people’s words have become my bible recently and I’ve been memorizing verses with abandon Instants of Graham 10:14 - Thou shalt state thy pronouns in thy profile Except I don’t know what to put and Female /|fē|māl/ adj. 1. of or denoting the sex that can bear offspring or produce eggs, distinguished biologically by the production of gametes which can be fertilized by male gametes 2. why doesn’t this fit Reddithians 13:5 - People whose gender is not male or female use many different terms to describe themselves, with non-binary being one of the most common

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for some reason I’ve been diagramming defining this sentence in the context of the sum of my parts and I have a circular slot in my brain girl is square and boy is rectangular and this is a diamond isn’t it but it’s warming shifting in my hands Male /māl/ adj. 1. of or denoting the sex that produces small, typically motile gametes, especially spermatozoa, with which a female may be fertilized or inseminated to produce offspring 2. why doesn’t this fit The Answers of Yahoo 5:18 - Thou shalt use nonbinary if thou feels comfortable it is an umbrella term and encompasses genderqueer agender bigender transidentifying and more e

Name /nām/ noun a word or set of words by which a person, animal, place, or thing is known, addressed, or referred to

Agender /ā|jend r/ adj. 1. denoting or relating to a person who does not identify themselves as having a particular gender 2. why does this fit I stopped wearing dresses and realized that I never really liked them I’ve been watching Youtube tutorials on how to use contour to look more masculine balance out my body but I was lifeguarding last month and a little kid called me sir and it’s better than ma’am and does that mean I’m a boy do jeans broad shoulders square jaw make me male I didn’t like barbies or hair clips as a kid trains and dinosaurs were cooler but didn’t everyone think that I used to play with the boys at recess because they were cooler less drama played soccer instead of chasing after crushes I could run faster than most of them and curve the ball into the goal during penalty kicks so they didn’t mind me tagging along I still paint my nails wear mascara eyeshadow lipstick I’m not uncomfortable in femininity I look like a girl or did look like a girl do look like a girl in hips and chest and nose I pay too much mind to those parts of me but that’s being a teenager I think I like horses and disney movies and my favorite color is purple I don’t know how to play video games or football I like Legally Blonde in theory and practice I am a girl I have to wear a skirt to my tutoring job and go into the bathroom with a stick figure wearing an oversized upside-down dog cone I tried to pee standing up as a kid but I stopped because it was harder and my mom told me not to and everyone else it was just a phase I stopped playing soccer with the boys and traded trains and dinosaurs for card games but what gender are card games for

short hair ear green eyes ear small nose lips square jaw chin neck hand wrist arm broad shoulders arm wrist hand black hole torso hips hips hips thigh thigh calf calf ankle ankle foot foot Pick one: ¨ Boy ¨ Girl and I was talking about names wasn’t I you look in the mirror for hours trying to add up the sum of your parts but you’re missing the right equation and you’re no Einstein: name - last letter = name google + time = name dictionary + closed eyes = name everyone says it’ll click and you’ll know I learned to drive stick shift last year and stalled every ten seconds now I can switch gears without thinking but that took four months and I’ve been searching for my horizon my meaning for three years are we meant to remain in motion am I supposed to return to being two weeks and six days old

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How To Forget About Your Mother Ignore her calls and texts. The occasional snail-mail tucked in amongst credit card statements, bills. Watch your father pick up a pen to sign the divorce papers, put it down, grab a beer and disappear out onto the back deck. Regret not being eighteen, wish you could walk down to city hall and shed the hyphen connecting you to her like your father soon will. Read about how deeply people regret erasing a parent from their life. Cut her out of every picture you can find. Box up her forgotten, sterile-scented belongings: an old juicer, three paint-stained t-shirts, a pair of flip flops that you’d borrowed the week before, then consider keeping the flip flops, slip them on, and realize that your toes fit perfectly into the indents worn into the soles. Try to hurl them out your window, sigh as they bounce off the glass and land on your windowsill. Leave the cardboard box on the practically-evaporating-from-heat concrete. Watch a familiar grey-silver sedan turn into the driveway. Avert your eyes for a moment, then look back at the now-empty space. Your favorite banana bread pan is gone too: sacrificed to her spirit, perhaps taken. Recipes ricochet off the inner walls of your mind, coated in expired eggs, flour. Grab a bowl, whisking until you can’t feel her hand indented on your knuckles. Hurl the batter into the sink. Hide away the beat-up silver measuring cups. Order take-out. Then try get-out. Wear out your first pair of pavement-christened shoes. Punish your feet: foolish escape artists. Map out your neighborhood, then your veins. Lacerate every inch of your skin. Bleed. Tie yourself in blankets, hiding your body: her body. Slowly forget eye-color, nose slope. Find your pan on the doorstep, smash it. Burn the accompanying note. Cut your mummified body into pieces with the shards. Shave your head, gouge your eyes. Look in the mirror. Do you remember?

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BLAIR REEVES

Photography | Kinder High School for Performing and Visual Arts, Houston, TX

Alluring Visage Digital photography 2020 338

Margaret Digital photography 2019 339

CLARISE REICHLEY Creative Nonfiction | Denver School of the Arts, Denver, CO

How To Live With Climate Anxiety Part One: Diagnosis 1. Have you been feeling flammable lately? That is to say, do you feel as if one single lit match could leave you burning for weeks? Answer: Yes, I realized the acid rain of the city has doused me in lighter fluid. My daydreams are of burning-- of the hillsides I’ve known since infancy, now going up in a plumage of smoke. I feel the only way to exist is a pyre for a pyre. Their bodies burn, so must my body burn. 2. Have you had trouble sleeping? Does your mind race? Answer: Yes. Even in my dreams there is this doom that all will end in a furnace. Yesterday, I examined my body in the mirror and found scars from a three-month sunburn. I can’t sleep knowing this sun pulses hungrily above me, eating me slowly. It makes me remember I am 70% water and this is what it means to evaporate. 3. Do you find yourself over analyzing situations? Does your mind wander to death? Do you self-diagnose yourself as dying? Answer: Yes, yes, yes! I wake every day to a new pain. When I feel joy, I shame myself into despair. For why feel joy when my existence is bound to end in a brush fire or a tsunami or a pandemic or through lost will to live? Yesterday, the heat made me consider the future. Today, the smoke made me consider the future. My mind denies my body comfort, my soul denies my mind the assurance of death. If you answered yes to two or more of the above questions, consider consulting your therapist for more information. And if you don’t have a therapist, you’ll have to make do on your own, unless you have excellent health insurance with payment provided in full at the time of your session. Please note, due to the ongoing pandemic, the shortest waitlist for a therapist is approximately two and a half months. Part Two: Denial At first, you may try to deny that you have a preexisting condition or disorder. That’s normal. Over time, this will shift and you’ll begin to see the situation with newer eyes. For example, where you once deluded yourself into thinking the Earth was healing, you will instead realize each day is a continuation of mortality. As you confront denial, you may find yourself uncovering all the chronic positivity and eco-capitalism you’ve been force-fed. Common emotions during this stage include: despair, inexplicable wonder at the nature of things, hopelessness, joy to be able to breathe fresh air. You must remember, denial is a drug, an addiction. When the pandemic hit, all over the world people spread the happy news that polluted ecosystems were regaining their footing. For a moment, I embraced complacency; allowing myself to believe three weeks of lockdown could reverse the consumerism of the past one hundred and fifty years. You may convince yourself that, like the Lorax, you too can speak for the trees. You may have premonitions, lucid dreams, or otherwise prophetic interactions. Don’t dwell on these. They are not good for your mental health.

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4. Have you experienced any of the above? Answer: The other day I heard the Earth whisper to me. Her voice was hoarse and she kept coughing like a smoker. While I listened, my despair only grew. “Although human eras are short lived and swiftly ended, human obsession with growth knows no bounds.” “When my first daughters learned the innovation of capturing seeds in soil, I was bemused by their ingenuity. Yet they were only given a generation to marvel at their growth, for too soon the men dictated production and immured my daughters in the mud huts of domesticity. My delight transformed to bitterness as these empire-builders demarcated and sanctioned my rolling hills, my creased valleys, my silent brooks, into kingdoms, into states, into countries. As my daughters were stripped of themselves, I too was made a stranger. They kept me out, they called me wicked things, they mutilated my body. And yet their hunger for growth only blossomed more. By the time I realized I had lost control, it was too late.” By the time I realized I was never in control, it was too late. Part Three: Escape As the modus operandi of your denial grows weaker, you will turn to other methods. We have observed that most individuals experiencing this condition attempt to escape. They say their body is a prison and their mind is the guard. They turn to travel or narcotics or sex in an effort to quell the mounting insurrection within. 5. Have you felt trapped within yourself over the past 30 days? Answer: For the past three months, when the farthest I ventured was to the northern corner of the park, I experienced my own kind of acidification. In my personal atmosphere, there was an infiltration of emotional fumes, which reacted with my lungs to create a gas, a poison. Entrapped in my home, I experienced slow death. Faith was murdered in my bed and I was the prime suspect. In short, yes. In an act of resurrection, I faced my eyes towards the dawn. On the last day of June, I departed the Queen City of the Plains and headed East. When I told others my destination, I was vindicated as a new-age Kerouac, searching for the American dream in sleepy Nebraska towns and acres upon acres of corn. Yet my aim was not to indulge in bought and sold pleasure, but rather to leave behind the fallacies of material America. Armed only with my tent and my typewriter, we traced the old pioneer route through Kansas and Missouri. And although I looked closely for some semblance of prosperity, I found only thirsty fields driven mad by drought. And although I looked closely for some semblance of freedom, I found only stolen, exploited land. Across the converted prairie, I daydreamed about the thunder of the buffalo stampede, the freedom of the Kickapoo tribe, and what it must have been like to traverse this land on horseback. I grew thirsty. I grew hungry. I grew fed-up with the duplicity of agribusinesses and feedlots. Already, less than a day away from Denver, and I realized the American dream was merely a mirage, a promise held by the unseen distance, an urban legend spoken in whispers.

While evening fell and the land grew still, the fireflies emerged in mystical dozens. Accustomed to the oppressive heat and oppressive loneliness, they lit themselves in adoration of summer. Meanwhile, by the light of a candle, I clacked on my typewriter, freedom-drunk words that colored Kansas as a holy land. Even as I wrote, I knew my true muse was not the pesticide-drenched cornfields; instead, it was liberation from monotony. Held by the roar of the open road, all sense of reality fled into fantasy. In the new landscape, I forgot the predictability of myself that shadowed my days in lockdown. Now, I was again enlivened by mystery, curiosity, desire to experience, to see, to feel, to taste, to be anywhere but where I’d come from. I allowed myself to forget this landscape was a living cemetery. After a sleep penetrated by the inescapable heat, we quickly packed up our tent and continued forward. As morning gave way to afternoon, slight changes began to occur. The hills grew and great big sycamores appeared by the roadside. There was a density in the air and the sun was heavy. Missouri beckoned. After a brief stop in Ohio, where our tent was bombarded with over an inch of rain in one night, we moved forwards to upstate New York: a new extreme. Instead of becoming lost in wordless beauty, we were introduced to conservative extremists and penetrating humidity. We fell asleep sweating and awoke sweating. In Buffalo, the land cracked in uncharacteristic drought. On the banks of the Niagara river, in Black Rock park, where enslaved people bid their last farewell to the shackles of the States, I looked closely for a promise of equality. Instead, I found shards of glass and tattered protest signs from the uprisings which fought all summer to expose the underbelly of white supremacy. Across the water, Canada sat. So similar to the land I stood on, yet separated by boundaries. As I watched those across the mythic, rushing river go about their daily lives, the longing for freedom arose within me again. The borders were closed, we were unwanted, I was trapped in failed American democracy. It was my seventh day on the road and already the hopes of the first firefly-lit night were soaked in acidic American nationalism. Doubt shadowed me as I witnessed this country in its full self. Where I’d come from was a niche of privileged white liberals. I’d left to witness America in her fully-fledged bigotry. Days later, we arrived at the promised land of Vermont; the likeminded covenant of New England. The deep, old-growth forests made me realize my starvation. Although there are trees where I come from in Colorado, their timber is pliable and fleeting; their legacy is an August forest fire or tenement housing for pine beetles. When you’re amongst depletion, you don’t realize your craving. When you’re surrounded by lackluster green, you don’t realize how deficient you are of the pulsing chlorophyll of deciduous trees. My starvation wasn’t singular, nor was it isolated. My starvation was inherited, from those very first homesteaders who didn’t realize the breadth of their ax-- who saw only these oak and hemlock and birch trees as floorboards, siding, and a warm fire for the coming autumnal nights. Now, amongst the primordial oxygen of the forest, I was given new breath. Yet this breath felt like its own form of abduction, of stealing. Although the hills were shrouded in mist and our tent withstood nights-long rain, I noticed the skeletal look of dry riverbeds and attempted to make myself believe it was a seasonal thing, natural. Denial is a drug. At this same time, I began to read Walden or Life in the Woods and became indoctrinated into the cabala of the Transcendentalists. I read Thoreau to escape this time, to return to the assurance that life was guaranteed, to feel the thrill of the unexplored. In exile from the mainstream, I fantasized the feeling of a future in this world. I indulged in my ultimate wish to run away into the woods and write poetry about my neighbors, the birds. Yet there was no time left to run away, to sing in adoration. The clock of ten final years to act on the climate crisis was a cyclical ticking inside me. Denial is an addiction. In one anecdote, Thoreau detailed his sustaining meal of boiled purslane, how the leaves satiated his hunger more than any cut of meat.

Like him on the shores of Walden Pond, I wished to consume handfuls of fertile dirt, fern fronds, hummus from the forest floor, if only it meant becoming as sacrosanct as these woods. Part Four: Return to Reality Eventually things will return to emotional homeostasis. One morning you’ll wake up and realize this life is your life, this breath is your breath, and to separate yourself from your body is to initiate a slow death. Perhaps when you realize the state of the world, the state of yourself, all will be long gone. Perhaps not. It’s always best to prepare for the worst. 6. Have you been in touch with reality recently? Answer: Our time in Vermont was shorter than hoped and we were forced to turn towards the sunset. Driving through the backwoods of Pennsylvania, I felt a two-edged grief: the grief of all the trees that whetted the appetite of my great great grandfathers, the grief of the indigenous people my great great grandfathers uprooted, murdered, disenfranchised. I’d finished Walden several hundred miles back and was reconciling with the return to the twenty first century. Where Thoreau lamented the shrill whistle of a train, I lamented the incessant drone of cars on the freeway. Where Thoreau lamented the thoughtlessness of humans, I lamented my generation’s blindness to natural beauty. During our return, we marveled at cheap gas prices. I lamented my dependence on foreign oil. For lunch, in the middle of nowhere, we relied on convenience store sandwiches. I lamented the single use plastics, disposed of in seconds, never fully purged. On the roadside, the mangled bodies of racoons, opossums, and skunks lay rotting. I lamented the careless need for speed. In Thoreau’s time none of this need for instant gratification existed. I mourned the era of my birth, and wished to be alive in another time. We returned to Colorado on the tail of a thunder head, welcomed by thousands upon thousands of sunflowers. Yet their sycophantic faces offered a false sense of hope. One field over, all was dirt as far as the eye could see. As we reentered the prairies of heat and wind, I heard the murmurations of a spark taking hold. Lightning tasted the spice of drought-thirsty pine trees. The hillsides of a faraway town were darkening with smoke. A week after our return, the ember had blossomed into the worst fire in Colorado’s history. Each morning, I awoke to the metallic taste of smoke and saw the skies turned orange in warning. I wondered what Thoreau would think. Perhaps this is the Second Coming or apocalypse. Perhaps the death of these trees is making room for the future. All I know is that the pyre of these forests is a glimpse of what is to come. When you wake up to reality, it will be jarring. You will feel as if you are the only person experiencing existential dread. That is not true, though. For your face is one of millions, turning skywards in mortal fear; marveling at the destruction that is to come. Lest you forget, this is merely the beginning. 1. Have you been feeling flammable lately?

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ABEL REYES

Design Arts | Design and Architecture Senior High School, Miami, FL

The Magdalene Corset Jacket Process Graphite pencil on wax paper, photography, and digital collaging on Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator 2020 342

Metamorphosis of a Gown Colored pencil on cardboard, collaged in Adobe Photoshop 2020 343

AMY RIUMBAU Visual Arts | New World School of the Arts, Miami, FL

Buoy Handmade beads, foam and water 2019 344

Western Union Knot Rope and the Straits of Florida water 2020 345

JAELA ROBINSON Photography | Stivers School for the Arts, Dayton, OH

Gravity Silver gelatin print 2020 346

Vista Silver gelatin print 2020 347

MAXWELL ROBISON

Short Story | International Leadership of Texas, Keller-Saginaw High School, Fort Worth, TX

The Man Who Killed King Arthur Rob’s Diner was always busy on Sunday afternoons. It was when the good church folk came to eat and it was where they’d sit with their families and crowd up the place for two hours and then leave. Dougal was also there, but he was there every day. He’d sit there and drink coffee and pretend to read detective paperbacks and talk to the waitresses and splay his pudgy, middle-aged form over a seat, but mostly he’d trick himself into thinking that he was doing something because he never did anything at all. It had been like this for years now. Dougal always tried to ignore everyone else’s chatter, but that Sunday seemed to elicit nothing but metronomic reagans and mondales and talk of election ‘84 from the usual patrons. It was a dentist’s drill up Dougal’s nose. It scrambled his reading and it scrambled everything else and he felt suffocated in whatever floated into these people’s heads, about the election or anything else. He only got fragments at a time, strings of conversation quickly pulled out by the next, bees buzzing in his skull. His eyes darkened and sat back in his head and he looked at the empty chair across from him. There was a menu in front of it. He was always there alone but they always gave him two menus, one for each seat. He thought for a while, but not really about anything in particular. He thought about the election but he really didn’t, because they were just faces and names and what did he care? He started to exorcize each of those buzzy words out of his head, one by one, each little churchgoing thought scattered to the wind until they were all shattered with the uttering of a jack kennedy from the mouth of someone who damn well didn’t know any better and Dougal slunk back against his chair. Jack Kennedy. John F Kennedy. Shaken, jittery, because what did these people know about Kennedy, what did they know about how good he was, what did they know about anything? The buzzing stopped. A waitress came by and he ordered another coffee. He hadn’t thought about Kennedy in years. He didn’t want to. He figured he didn’t have to anymore, but there he was. He reminisced. He reminisced about himself as a young man, as somebody who was someone and something. He never did that. It was hard for him to reminisce, because he hadn’t existed for twenty-two years. ( ... )

He was in an office, pallid and yellowing at the edges, lit by a bulb dangling from a chain. It smelled like ash and burnt cinnamon. There was a man in front of him, flabby and emaciated, like a skinny bulldog. Suspenders and greased hair and stains on his tie, skin sickly and gray and speckled. The man was warm, though, in spite of himself. His eyes crackled with something. In the corner there was a man dressed head to toe in black, a trilby and sunglasses shrouding a waxy, hairless face that looked like pantyhose pulled over a butternut squash with bright, ketchup-red lips. He had a little rubber ball in his hand that he gently tossed up and down, catching it every time, even though it didn’t look like that at all. Every time he launched the ball in the air it looked like it was falling down backwards and every time it fell and he caught it it looked like he was tossing it in reverse, a plasticine hand following it down and wrapping each finger around it only to unravel like a spring and fly right back up. The man at the desk spoke. “So, Mulligan, is it?” He snapped back to attention. “Yes, sir.” “It’s a pleasure. Name’s Jankowski.” The man grinned and stretched out a hand, which was promptly shook. 348

“Says here you’ve got a sterling combat record - enlisted in Korea as a marksman and got picked up by Dulles’ boys... time in Guatemala, Iran, and a stint in Indo-china.” He stretched the space between the two syllables. “Am I missing anything?” “Was scheduled to drop into Cuba with 2506, but that didn’t really work out.” Jankowski gave a grim chuckle. His jowls stirred, tensed and relaxed. “So, are you aware of the nature of this project?” “No, sir.” “Good. Means I don’t have to fire anyone. You have any opinions on the president?” “Kennedy?” “Yes.” He scribbled something on a notepad that Mulligan couldn’t see. “No, sir.” Jankowski looked up. “None?” “I don’t concern myself with politics too much, sir.” The man let out a belly laugh. “Me neither, son.” The man in black in the corner was still bouncing the rubber ball. “How old are you, Mulligan?” “Thirty in September, sir.” “Got a wife?” “No, sir.” “Parents?” A pause. “Just a mother, sir.” “Where’s your dad?” “Dead. The war.” Another pause. “I’m sorry to hear that.” “Thanks.” The lightbulb in the middle of the room went out. Mulligan didn’t flinch, Jankowski spoke. “One second. Fuckin’ power goes out all the time. You know how wetworks are.” He stepped out of the room. Mulligan heard the rubber ball fall and pit-pat onto the floor, rolling under something. The man in black stood up and bent over, tracing his hand across the ground to find it. Sounded like he did, rather. Mulligan spoke up. “Do you need any help-” He was answered with a monotone. “No. Thanks, though.” A shuffling, and the man sat back down. The lights came back on. The fellow in the corner had shed his sunglasses, exposing shaved eyebrows and jagged little pupils. He was holding the ball still now. Jankowski stepped back in. “Sorry about that,” he grumbled. “Power goes out all the time. Like I said, funding’s pretty marginal around here, so we’re running a pretty bush league operation. Good news, though - you seem to be an ideal candidate for our little project here.” “Sir, I don’t know what the project is.” “And you won’t. For a while, at least.” He passed a folder across the table. “Here’s what you can do for me in the meantime. Ring me up at Langley after, and we’ll get down to brass tacks.” Mulligan picked up the folder and looked inside. He was to meet with another agent and fake his own death. Rob’s diner.

( ... )

Rob’s diner Rob’s diner Rob’s diner. The name of the place rolled around in Dougal’s head. He had never thought about it before because when he thought about the name it stopped being real. He spent near every day of his life for the past ten years in the place but never thought about the name. He had never met Rob. As far as he knew, Rob wasn’t real. Maybe some sort of propped-up fakery meant to lure someone important in, but he knew that wasn’t true. He was just entertaining himself while he dragged his eyes across cheap words on a cheap page and drank cheap coffee. Maybe any second now they’d come around a corner and put a bag over his head, toss him in the back of a truck and wheel him somewhere. Now would be a good time, he thought. Place was just about cleared out, no more words zigzagging around like ping-pong balls in a blender, but Kennedy still rang in his head, and he was still thinking about Kennedy, wasn’t he? He tried to think he wasn’t thinking but he still thought. “Coffee?” “Huh?” He blinked once, then twice. “Coffee, sir.” He smiled and nodded, like he was supposed to. The waitresses were always fine to him. Normally he’d talk to them but now he couldn’t, because he remembered that he didn’t exist. What was he supposed to talk about? How can an idea have opinions or observations or ideas of its own? Because that’s what he was: an idea, not really a person. He was getting too philosophical now. No, he wasn’t thinking of Kennedy at all. ( ... )

The rain broke around noon and it was too warm for November. He had been sitting on this damn ridge for two hours in the rain and now it was hot. Oswald was in the book depository, dangling his rifle out the window. That fucking idiot. That fucking idiot’s going to blow the job. His radio crunched and a crisp voice eked out. “On approach now. Ready.” He could see the target through his scope, beaming. A saint on a candle. They loved him. The first shot cracked the sky. It missed. That dumb fucker Oswald missed he missed he fucking missed, but nobody noticed, it was all too perfect. A man flashed an umbrella - a blind child flashing a cap gun at a hurricane. Oswald shot again. Kennedy’s neck burst. The car reared to go and the man on the grassy knoll knocked the president’s brain loose. His head floated into a pink mist and covered everything around it and his wife was screaming and everybody else was screaming, screaming, crying. He shoved his gun in his raincoat and walked away. It wasn’t the first time for him. It was for everyone else, not for him. There was about fifteen minutes of silence before Dallas exploded. People yelling their jaws off and sobbing but mostly just standing there with their heads down. The man who killed the president had his head down, too, but he was walking. A cop stopped him in a park and his voice shook for identification. He complied. Peter J. Dougal wasn’t suspicious enough to kill the president. He slipped out, the cop let him go. He slipped all the way to a hotel lobby two blocks and a right down. Nobody was there. His footsteps bounced through hallways and stairwells and for a few minutes made Dougal think of who he was, where he was, who he wasn’t and he was at his room. Jankowski and the man in black were there too. Jankowski slapped Dougal on the back. The man in black was sitting on the bed, eating potato chips. He nodded at Dougal and ate. Daintily, with slim fingers. His mouth always made a sideways D shape when he ate. Teeth were too small. Dougal had never noticed. “Well?” “Hm?” “You just whacked the leader of the free world. Congrats.” “Thanks.” Jankowski smiled. A real smile. “Where’s Oswald?” “I didn’t see him leave.” “Oh.” He sat down and shuffled some paperwork. Dougal was numb. Everyone was waiting for something to happen, even though the president was dead and they had all gotten away. Confession without a priest.

( ... )

Dougal tried dating around after he got relieved. He was still wellbuilt and handsome and thirty-one years old. He figured it’d be a decent time to settle down. He’d get a pension in the mail every week that could sustain him and a wife and a few kids and he could have a life but it didn’t happen that way. Women thought him too odd. Polite and respectable and sweet and handsome and a few more choice adjectives but overall far too odd, a man who only spoke of his childhood masked in vagueness and didn’t have any job anyone could figure out. He couldn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t tell anyone why he didn’t have a job but plenty of money. He couldn’t tell anyone that he got a check in the mail for five thousand dollars from the Central Intelligence Agency, from the desk of Henry Jankowski every Saturday at 11 AM. He couldn’t tell anyone that Peter J. Dougal had only existed since December of 1962. If he told anyone they’d kill him. He wondered where he was in the great scheme of things. For the first four months after the assassination, Dougal wanted to be in some sort of textbook for what he did, but then he realized that was silly. It seemed absurd to him that he would ever have a place in history. He had done something important but he did it too well. He did it so well that most people didn’t think he was real and now he didn’t either, he condemned himself by being too good at his job. If he had been caught like Oswald, maybe there would’ve been a bit of notoriety, maybe a bit of appreciation but Oswald was dumb enough to shoot a cop and get caught and Dougal wasn’t. No, Dougal did exactly what he was supposed to do and now he wasn’t real. You have to mess up a little to get in the books, unless you’re Jesus or Lincoln. If Brutus had never been caught, then Caesar would’ve just died on the Ides of March. He didn’t kill John F. Kennedy on a warm November afternoon while the whole country watched. He did a job. History killed John F. Kennedy. History didn’t load the bullets or sight the scope or miss the first shot or cover the president’s wife in that horrible pink mist but it killed him. If it hadn’t been Dougal it just would’ve been someone else with a gun where he was. Kennedy was dead the minute he was elected, dead the minute he fucked up the Bay of Pigs and god knows he was dead the day he set foot on the tarmac at Love Field. Dougal wasn’t a Brutus. He was a bug on the windshield of history. The waitress came by again. “Coffee?” “Huh?” “Coffee, sir.” He smiled and nodded.

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KARINA RODRIGUEZ Design Arts | Design and Architecture Senior High School, Miami, FL

Recycled Denim Dress Recycled and unwanted denim, thread, zipper 2019 350

Zaha Hadid Architectural Inspired Two Piece Garment Satin fabric, thread, zipper, grey ribbon 2020 351

ARTEMISIO ROMERO Y CARVER Spoken Word | New Mexico School for the Arts, Santa Fe, NM

MOM I knew a woman who swallowed a fly in her stomach her daughter couldn't stop buzzing off punch drunk love and hallow fake highs I don't understand you, can't even promise to try Cremate my hate | three fates | girl can I borrow an eye It's been 5 years | That's a long time My decision, I didn't want you to make me High percentage, of kinds like me dead or crazy you never loved us children, god as my only witness, as my holy witness, you can't die can't die, you owe me my forgiveness I can’t remember my mom’s face Pay it back, pay it back, you’re still involved in Chimayo, I was convinced you were in the walls in the sacturio, in the dirt and the minerals I was shaking in bed the girl I was with held me still medicinal herbs and poison urges, we can't get our fill so sick so sick so ill, I'm in remission still I don't need permission I'm my father | my mother | my family tree Red soil manger | tap water | my anger atrophy I promise myself that I never would be again at your feet like stiletto shoes My real mother once removed I would like to see, what I'd look like if I wasn't your masterpiece this is all I have to be The choice to leave, you took that from me My determinism, I got that from you This an intervention | this a séance | this an interview Raise the dead | raise your children | raise your prophet too That's what prophets do I can lie and speak like you taught me too and I can call that art You could scream and yell and call that culture We both know this part where I shadow box your ghost for as long as I please still asking for introductions, I haven't met my needs

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PRAYER #3 | to ward off tokenization PRAYER #3 | to ward off tokenization This is a prayer for the southside I say it with my mouth wide cause if I close it I’ll be left choken on the tongue I’ve tied

open by token

of my token of peace being a piece of my own tokenization and the earth that left quaking when grandpa died alone in a diaper hoping someone would pick up the phone I’m pointing my finger at a skyward power hoping the same The finality of my name my family line is adorned with rosary beads I hold them seeds like batteries looking for the divine power To stop me cause I think Latino and only see cockroaches, blunt smoking and uncut weeds I don’t know if I deserve forgiveness but I know it's something I need I need forgiveness I leave my village I weave a visage I see I grieve I'll be a witness to how my voice been amplified to a size big enough for a loudspeaker and amphitheater bigger than those I stand beside in marches and sit-ins with raised fists in protest and action and friendship The press conferences just double my confidence In the mist of the crowd the apparition of family’s faces remind me there will be ghosts of all of us it's obvious The local newspapers want to know all my trauma it's hard to be a spokesperson and a person of color When every interview starts I should talk about how my mother abused me use the pity to gain sympathy from the kind of audience historically scared of me. My pain a performance My insecurities a chorus It's honestly a little fun The reporter smiles at me She’s friendly and relatively young She says we’re almost done I thank her for everything says it was her pleasure I speak surprisingly well for someone my age I appreciate the compliment, but maybe it should be rephrased if that's alright I'm no genius I just know how to talk white 353

LU I S S A N D OVA L Visual Arts | Lovejoy High School, Lucas, TX

Locations of Chihuahua Watercolor, gouache and micron pen on pecan board 2020 354

Abuelos y Chihuahua Plywood, pecan wood 2020 355

VIOLET SCHUBERT Visual Arts | Kinder High School for Performing and Visual Arts, Houston, TX

Containment Steel, acrylic paint 2020 356

Isolation / Influence Collage, yarn 2020 357

P O E M S C H WAY Short Story | Homeschool, Las Vegas, NV

mayfly So there's a party on Saturday night, which isn't a big deal because there's a party every Saturday night, and I'm getting ready for it because I go to all the Saturday night parties because there's nothing else to do here. 'Here' being the Windsor Academy for Nominally Catholic Rich Kids, located in Lyme Disease Central, Connecticut, population five hundred of the most casually glutted teenagers you'll ever see. Party the night away, turn up at 8AM abstinence-only sex-ed wearing someone else's vomit on your loafers and then stumble into your final a few hours later with crushed Adderall on your lip and absolutely nothing in your skull 'cause the grade inflation's what your daddy's paying for, baby. Five hundred sweaty, gangly, thoroughly adolescent trust fund babies dumped in the middle of a forest in the middle of nowhere, wreaking absolute havoc on the universal standards of common decency before going on to become the kind of golf-enthusiast executive that wears Ralph Lauren to country clubs. It's great, and more importantly, it's home. So there's a party. And I've got my lipstick on, my blush, my little black dress, my stiletto heels that I'm going to end up breaking an ankle on one of these days but keep wearing because I want to be beautiful more than I want to keep my bones intact. I study myself in my phone's reverse camera, approving: I am smudged, shadowed, contoured to perfection, Barbie-doll plastic, sculpted wax ready to melt under pulsing strobe lights. I look like the personification of chugging six straight shots of spiked Kool-Aid on a dare – saccharine and addictive, the worst idea you've had all night and the most tempting. I look hot. I also look pissed, which I am, because I've been waiting here, sitting primly at the foot of my bed, Cinderella-like, for Dean to knock politely at my door for fifteen minutes and he's still not here and honestly the boys' dorm is not that far away so what the hell could possibly be taking him so long? What the hell could be so important he won't even send a deeply remorseful thirty-second text? I mean, we've been dating for what – three weeks? Four? Longer than I usually keep a guy for, anyway, but I really like Dean. I like his puppy-dog demeanor, his bright blond All-American boyishness, that thing he does with his tongue when we kiss. But this is a grave offense, and not his first one either. "Angie, do you think I should break up with Dean?" The words pop like bubbles, frustrated. I have to ask. "He wasn't exactly the greatest boyfriend before, and now…" I wave around an offended hand. "This." Angie doesn't reply. I toss a sideward glance at her. She's sitting bow-legged on her bed, fingers interlocked, fixated on the meticulously creased sheets. Milky, glazed porcelain roasted at two-thousand degrees. Thin lines of her eyebrows like little plucked butterfly wings. Thinking about something, pondering something, taking a leisurely swim in the algae-choked swamp of her overly large and exceedingly nerdy brain. It's cute, but she's also not listening to me. "Angieeee." I stretch her name like Halloween taffy and sidle over to her bed and lace my arms around her thin shoulders. She jolts – gives a little keening sound, like a startled horse – and immediately elbows me hard in the ribs. I fall back onto her duvet with an undignified whump. "Jesus Christ, don't scare me like that," she snaps, compulsively yanking her wire-rimmed glasses off her nose to scrub at them with the hem of her button-down shirt. I shrug and peel myself off the blankets, giving myself a quick look-over in the far mirror before replying. Good, my eyeliner wasn't smudged too badly by the sudden pillow to the face. "Duly noted. So, like I was saying. Should I dump Dean?" She glances at me. "For what?" 358

"For being late. For being kind of boneheaded sometimes. For not wanting me to steal his jackets. Lots of things." "Lots," she repeats, unimpressed. Her glasses sit crooked on the bridge of her nose, so by habit I lean forward and give them a little nudge. There, that’s better. Honestly, what would she do without me? "Maybe I'm just not cut out for a serious relationship," I sigh. "Maybe my standards are too high. Maybe–" "Maybe you're seventeen." Angie's looking at me like I'm an idiot, now, which is a very common occurrence, and then, like clockwork, she punches me in the shoulder, lips quirked in an exasperated parabola of a half-smile. A 'god, you're stupid' kind of despairing fondness. This is our dynamic, our little give and take: me, starring as the melodramatic belle, swooning onto metaphorical couches only a little drunkenly; her, dragging me off the couch, making sure I drink my water and giving me an earful while she's at it. "But yes, Ella, your standards are too high." "Oh, you're one to talk. When was the last time you flirted with someone, hmm? When dinosaurs still walked God's green Earth?" She shrugs, an awkward little jostle of her shoulder bones. "Hey. I don't flirt. You know that." "I do know that. I also know that’s going to change tonight." I channel all the charisma I can and give her my best, most convincing roguish grin, a camera-flash of straight white behind my perfect crease of lipstick. A smile to die for. "C'mon, loser, we're going to the party together. With or without Dean." She groans, slaps her palms to her knees. "I swear to God, Ella, not again. Remember what happened last time? And the time before?" Angie's relationship with Windsor's infamous Saturday night parties is complicated, which is to say that she occasionally gets strong-armed into attending one by yours truly. Whenever she does go, though, it invariably ends up with her trying to expel her guts over a toilet bowl at four in the morning while I hold her hair back. Angie is beautiful, and she is smart, and she is my best friend in the entire world. But she cannot hold her liquor. I understand that that has soured her experiences with our party scene significantly, considering that at any given point there's probably more booze than blood sloshing around in the attendees. I place my hands on the sides of her hollow face and say, very solemnly, "Look. I know things have gone badly before, but this time will be different. I promise that I'll make sure you're one-hundred percent sober for the next six hours. But you need to fucking live a little, so I also promise that you're going to end up glued to some cute person's face for the next six hours. Soberly." Angie scrutinizes me, suspicious. I've always said that she has cynical doe eyes, like a deer that's seen one too many of its brethren be brutally murdered on rural backroads, and right now she's giving me a look that says she really shouldn't trust me on this one but still does. It's written all over her face, somewhere between the Jackson Pollock spray of freckles and the thumbprint dimples denting her cheeks. "Do you know what the definition of insanity is?" She says finally, voice flat and coarse like a salt pan. But the half-smile is cracking open into something wide and real and just a little thrilled, and that's how I know I've got her. At that point, there's a knock on the door. To absolutely no one's surprise, it's Dean. //

When we arrive at the party, it's already sunken into the deepest and most lurid throes of degeneracy. The sweaty darkness is punctured in several places by the searing fizzle of glow-sticks, swung around drunkenly in the clammy palms of gyrating future millionaires, and it's only with that faint illumination that I can make out what's going on approximately two feet in front of my face. All the tables are pushed to the left wall, stacked high with smashed beer cans and Solo cups and the elaborate glass punch bowl that gets broken every other week. The exit to the outdoor pool hugs the right wall, a steady stream of giggling students stumbling their way in and out with each passing throb of music. Dean is with me, of course, though I'm still mad at him. I gave him the silent treatment for the entire walk to the gym but I'm also letting him put a hand on my waist, so it should cancel out. I've always been good at math. Either way, I'm not deciding what to do with him right now. His tenuous status as boy-toy can wait. Tonight is for me and Angie. "Babe? Be a good boyfriend and get us drinks?" The words are candied and the only thing I've said to him for the past ten minutes, and the way he very nearly falls flat on his sculpted face in his haste to fulfill my request has this slapstick undertone, like a sitcom bit. Then, with Dean gone, I tug Angie closer, speaking almost directly into her ear so she can hear me over the skull-shattering bass. "Hey." "Hi." "Let's have fun, okay?" I hook my pinkie finger with hers earnestly. "No boys." "But your arm candy looks so pretty," she replies drily, skin flashing dizzyingly in neon rainbows from the swaying glow-stick light. I steal a quick ogle at Dean as he hurries away: he does look pretty, that's true, all dolled up in his letterman, hair a complete rat's nest but in a way that suggests stylishness instead of lack of hygiene. Like one of those wet scribbles on canvas that my parents collect because it's 'modern art'. But frankly, I've had prettier. "Not as pretty as you," I tease, giving Angie an exaggerated onceover. "Seriously, you look sexy as hell. It's not going to be hard to find you a date, I can tell you that much." She stares at me, pupils blown up wide like a black orchid across shards of brown iris. So close I can practically feel the tickle of her lashes against my painted cheek. Her body is fitted to me all wrong, now, wrist and clavicle and hip, but the skin draped over those bones is cool and smooth like granite tile. I note with a quiet, gloating satisfaction – that little strand of ownership that comes with this level of intimacy – that someone, eventually, will be very lucky to have her. "I thought you said no boys," she says finally, rocking on her heels an inch back. "No boys unless the boys are cute," I correct in reply. I let my gaze slip off her lovely face and onto the thicker, nastier crowd ahead. "Schrödinger's hunk." Angie looks around briefly, taking in the horde of clammy teenage bodies swarming around us and shouting things that are nearly incoherent and still obviously profane. "Not particularly enthused about the prospects, if I'm being honest." "That's what I thought, too," I say sagely. "Then I met Dean, and isn't he a prince among men?" "Aren't you mad at him right now?" I gracefully decline to answer, instead pointing her to where the crowd is densest, where guys with torn-off shirts are chugging beer or piss from empty trash cans. "Observe the frat boy in training in its natural habitat," I say gravely, affecting a deep British accent. "This species routinely risks public humiliation and early liver failure in an attempt to woo a female. But will his mating dance work?" "It most certainly will not," says Angie, looking vaguely offended that I would even suggest such a thing. Well, that was to be expected. She's got too much brains to want to screw a baby alcoholic, even if I have no such standards. Dignity? Never heard of it. "Understandable," I shrug. "Moving on, then. I'm too lazy to keep doing the David Attenborough voice, though, so just pretend I'm speaking like we're on one of those documentaries where the cameraman kicks baby animals off cliffs for the top-notch footage."

Next, I steer her toward the group of students all sitting together in a crowded circle some distance away from the main party. "Behold, the stoners. The kind of people who you know are going to end up dropping out of college because of their debilitating addiction, but that's fine because their parents are loaded enough to give them a cushy desk job anyway. Truly, the most eligible kind of bachelor." There's a twinge of condescension in my speech, there, to accompany the mockery. One that was lacking from the commentary on the drunkards. I'm not clean – there's a little ziploc with an eighth of weed in my room, if you know where to find it – but I'm very much different from them. I don't derive my happiness from drugs. I don't derive my happiness from anything, honestly – I just kind of leech it in, let it sink through my skin like the drowsy heat of this party. Osmosis. Angie squints at them. "Are they doing lines of coke?" "What? Of course not. That's ridiculous." I take a few steps closer, peer past a couple of silhouettes, focus on their jittering hands. The hands that are – my jaw clicks shut – meticulously rolling up paper bills. Big bills, hundreds if I had to guess. The only thing kids here hate more than not showing off is being shown up. "Okay, yeah," I admit reluctantly. "They are doing lines of coke." There's a spot of silence between us, if you ignore the wildly explicit song vibrating painfully through my teeth and pounding to the frantic pulse of the crowd. I give an awkward little cough. "Anyway–" "Do you ever get tired of this?" Angie interrupts. I blink, abruptly swallowing the rest of my sentence. "Tired of what, exactly?" "This." She gestures, more than half disgusted, to the party raging around us. "Just… every weekend, everyone has a new boyfriend or girlfriend or hook-up. We go to class but we don't learn anything because we know it doesn't matter, we're all going to end up at good schools anyway. Like – to be completely honest – y'know what? We're spoiled brats. No one's ever had anything really bad happen to them. Our futures are set, have been since the moment we were born. We're the inheritors of the Earth, if not quite like the Bible described." She gives a bitter little bark of a laugh. "And because of that, because of that certainty, no one cares. No one fucking cares about anything, El." "I care about you," I say, and it's quite possibly the truest thing I've ever said in my life, but it's not what she wants to hear. It's not a defense against anything she's saying. And that's probably because, honestly, I love Windsor's meaninglessness. I love being able to do whatever the hell I want without worrying about things like consequences. I love that no one takes themselves seriously, because even though she's right and we are spoiled brats we're at least self-aware spoiled brats. "I know," Angie says, and god she sounds so tired it breaks my heart a little just on principle. She shakes her head vigorously, pushes off her glasses and scrubs at her eyes so hard I'm afraid they'll pop in their sockets like overripe grapes. "I think… I need a drink. I'm being – stupid. And too fucking dramatic. Fuck, I always get philosophical at the worst times." And there's that mockery of a laugh again, that bloody ball of resentment peeling past her watermelon-gloss lips. I want to – hold her. I want to hug her. I want to fix this. But we've always been different, fundamentally, she and I, and right now the best thing I can do is slap a Band-aid onto a problem that I don't truly think is a problem at all. "No, you aren't," I say. "We can talk about this." Even though I don't understand. I don't say it, not out loud, but she gets it. She always has, ever since the day we first met three years ago on the shuttle here – back when we were just this pair of idiotic, defiant little twiggy-legged girls armed with handbags full of credit cards and a terminal lack of sense. And she gives me that half-smile, that same little half-smile that I consider so deeply ours, and shakes her head. "Nah. Go have fun, dummy." And she walks straight into the crowd. Straight toward all the back tables crowded with booze. And I'm lurching forward to chase after her, of course, shoving my way through the mob, feeling the overwhelming greasy heat of teenage bodies stick to my skin – feeling clothes damp with sweat and the fever-hot flesh beneath press itself toward me hungrily – and my hair is starting to stick to my forehead in stringy swaths and mascara is bleeding fat streaks across the soft membrane of my eyelid and 359

fucking hell my voice aches like a stripped nerve from screaming her name over and over, frantic and bile-sour, and I can't stop. Not now. Not yet. Y'know – the thing about this dark, I think suddenly, desperately, on my third loop around the room, is that anyone can be anyone. It's just the nature of places like this, when the lights are out and your head is about to uncork right off your neck from the concussing, bone-breaking bass – you see glimpses of people, slices of their face, greedy drips and dregs of smooth skin, and the rest of them comes together instantly from the obscurity like Play-Doh pressed into a mold. Like a jigsaw puzzle stitching itself together. I love it – loved it – I found it convenient, at one point, to be able to close my eyes and pretend the person I was kissing was the person I actually wanted to kiss, but now that I see Angie in every corner and every hallucinogenic blur of glow-stick all I want is to turn on the fucking lights and find her and rattle her shoulders around until she promises to never do this again and drag her home. //

Time's passed. I'm sure. I have the same violent awareness of it as I would have of beer flooding unwillingly down my throat during a keg stand: hazy, burning. Knowing as a cardinal truth that it's been too much and too long. It could have been ten minutes. It could have been an hour. The music sounds exactly the same as it did when she left, this roiling, screaming mess, this unceasing orchestra of expletives that threatens to liquefy my brain through the holes of my ears. A hand wraps itself around my wrist, cold and strong, and my lips are already shaping her name in a breathy exclamation of the only prayer I've said in years when I turn around to face its owner. "Hey, hey," Dean says, two clear plastic cups filled with punch tucked in the crook of his arm. "I've been looking all over for you." Fuck, I think with feeling. "Not now, Dean," I snap, unapologetically angry, tearing away from his grip. "I need to go find Angie. She's–" "Is she doing something more important than our potential breakup?" I stop. I don't want to, but I do, half-shocked and half-affronted. The word comes without my permission – a rushed exhale, a malformed thing, unraveling from my throat like a bastard stepchild of a syllable. "What?" He hands me one of the cups. It feels like lead in my clammy grip. I consider throwing it all over his stupid red letterman, but instead I stay frozen and silent, a clay statue baked in the heat too long. "Look, Ella," he starts, "I like you. I want this to work. I want us to work. But it's not going to happen if you keep blowing up and forcing me to grovel for the tiniest things. Like seriously – come on. I was fifteen minutes late." I can't help it. My voice bursts out all at once, hot and sharp and mocking. "Groveling? Literally what the hell are you talking about? I – you mean getting us drinks? Jesus Christ, you are such a man-child." I run a vicious hand through my hair, almost laughing at the absurdity. "And you say fifteen minutes as if it's not a big deal. As if I didn't specifically ask you days before to show up at the right time." Oh yes, I think derisively, it's your turn to get angry now. That handsome face turning greasy red. That baby stubble on his jowls more pronounced from the tight jaw. "I've apologized! I've apologized over and over again while you refused to even look at me! Is there really a word for that other than groveling? And it's not like I committed a fucking war crime, I just lost track of time. I'm human too, you know?" "Oh my god, you still think it's about the fifteen minutes? It's not! It's about your utter lack of regard for my feelings! Fucking hell, Dean, this was supposed to be our first real date. Not just messing around and getting wasted like at all the other parties. We were supposed to have, I don't know, long conversations about our futures. And then sex. It was supposed to be romantic." "And we can still do that! I can act like Prince Charming, I've been doing my damn well best to act like Prince Charming, but it goes both ways. You need to actually talk to me when you're mad instead of being a passive-aggressive bit–" He cuts himself off. Or maybe I cut him off, I'm not sure, and honestly I don't think it really matters. "Okay, you know what?" My voice is light, now. Airy. This was over two insults ago. "Break up with me. Break up with me, see if I fucking 360

care. In case you haven't noticed, there isn't exactly a dearth of much more reasonable hot guys hanging around Windsor. And honestly? I never liked that ridiculous–" I'm halfway through insulting Dean's fashion choices when I hear a scream that penetrates the suffocating blanket of music around us. That's not unusual, in and of itself – there are plenty of things at this party to scream at – but something comes after. "Fucking help! Call 911! Someone's dead in the pool!" Dean and I stare at each other, paralyzed, for one long moment. His face looks strange, I find myself thinking suddenly. Drained of any previous malice. Like a little boy caught in an inextricable spiderweb of a situation that he never should've been in but has to suffer anyway. I wonder if I look the same way – horrendously out of my depth. Wanting to go back twenty minutes, or ten, or even one, back when I was still arguing over lateness and procured drinks. I let my plastic cup of punch fall to the ground with a dull clatter. And then I shove my way through the crowd, very nearly deranged, assuming this is an ugly sort of fever dream, and I find myself outside the gym, crowded around the lip of the pool with a dozen other students, staring down at the glassy blue of the water. It smells like chlorine. It smells like chlorine, and vodka, and there is a body floating gently on the surface, face down, hair unraveled in spools like a cruciform halo. Murmurs spread around the crowd, uneasy. Thunder after a burst of lightning. "Is she – dead?" "She must be dead, her face is in the water." "Holy shit, has someone called 911? Someone needs to call 911. Holy shit." "I think she got too sloshed and fell in…" I am not the one who drags the faceless girl out of the pool. Some guy from the lacrosse team does, not Dean, just some guy who I've seen walking around campus, some guy who's walking into the pool, now, down the concrete steps, taking the girl by the thin shoulders and pulling her gingerly across the water, his face as blank and pale as a sheet of paper. He drags her up onto the edge of the pool with a choked noise, turns around her water-logged body, and suddenly the faceless girl is no longer faceless. For that instant, for that one, unreal instant, the world stops. Grinds to a halt. Ceases its ceaseless revolution around the sun. The blood is rushing through my ears like a shaken soda bottle ready to pop. Ready to explode out of my head in a shower of blood and bone and brain-matter and gore.IpromisedIpromisedIpromisedIpromisedIpromised. I promised. //

They try to explain it like this: she drank. Of course she drank. She was at a party, and she felt bad, and peer pressure and this and that and none of that matters except the next fact: she was a lightweight. Skin and bones, really, and some guts, but not much else. Unused to drinking. Of course. She was a good girl. Smart. And the alcohol, yes. The alcohol. The culprit. The vile thing that twisted the crux of it from a tragic accident – so tragic, so awful, she was so young and so bright – to, y'know, something to put on warning posters. A public service reminder. Don't drink around large bodies of water, kids. Keep your heads screwed on straight. Go with a trusted friend. Of course. Go with a trusted friend. //

Outside of her locker, there is a memorial, this vibrant thing of frilly pink flowers like the bottom part of Victorian ball gowns and solemn sticky-notes in steady handwriting. Gone too soon. We love you. Rest in peace. At least, I imagine they say that. I'm not sure. I haven't seen it and I never will. A classmate texted me at some point and told me the whole school was banding together – stoners and drunkards and jocks, holding hands, singing kumbaya around the shallow grave of a dead little drowned girl. How wholesome. How heartwarming. On Sunday, the headmaster tells me that my parents cannot pick me up and cart me off to a therapist and will not be able to do so for several weeks because of their current whereabouts in a no-technology retreat tucked in the mountains of Tibet. The entire time he is talking, I am focusing on the great echoing tolls of the church bells, and of the sepulchral ringing that hums marrow-deep through my bones.

I do not leave my room. I do not leave my bed. I do not look at her side of the room, or the items scattered therein – the thick leatherbound books with faded spines; the unopened tube of lipstick; the ironed button-down shirts; the comb; the pencils. All the things she had touched at one point. I do not leave my bed because I refuse to walk around our shared space and erode her fading prints with my fresh ones. I move like a forensic scientist – one or two inches of writhing on my sheets, then scraping lines on my face with acrylic nails, tearing at the memory-foam pillow with my teeth, lodging my head between my knees and screaming until the walls shake. The way the room smells like her. The way she clings to me like a caul. I cry. A staccato series, like morse code, I'm-so-sorry-I'm-so-sorry-I and then I punch the wall and the plaster doesn't give and I repeat until the skin of my knuckle does. I accelerate the process of unbecoming. I fantasize about leaving Windsor and walking through the woods and walking and walking. I wake up gripping the roots of my hair and my scalp and crying and choking on snot and wondering is this the way she felt when she died because I wasn't there because I promised because of me. I'm fine. I feel fine. I'm staring at the ceiling. If grief were water, I would be in the shallow end right now. Floating. Letting it lap at my toes. I feel unreal. I feel maybe half or a quarter alive. Letting myself breathe in tiny increments. Out. In. Out. The shades to the window are closed and little lines of orange light are fanning across the floor. I'm staring at the ceiling, at the unmoving fan that looks like a brass lotus with those fat petals. My face feels raw. Gingerly malleable. Hot to the touch. I try to swallow and succeed after four tries, warm, sticky saliva sliding down my throat. Maybe I'm sick, I think suddenly, like a divine revelation. It would be great if I were sick. Then I could just fall asleep and die. I've been thinking about that a lot – dying. Not because I think I'll be with her. If I were with her, I'd scream at God until He put me somewhere I deserved. And that's the other thing I've been thinking about. God. Hell. Heaven. If she's there. If she's happy. If she knows I'm sorry. And then, tangentially, if I deserve to be forgiven – I don't – if I could confess to a priest and have him kill me. Justice. No. Reciprocity. And the room is starting to look like a Polaroid picture with the slats of light shading everything in that #2 pencil type of way, washed out, artfully smudged, charcoal on canvas. Maybe I'm sick. Of course I'm sick. Angie's fucking dead. There's something going on. Something outside of these four caving walls. I feel it in my veins like a drumbeat – ba-dum, ba-dum – like ants skittering across the inside of my skin. Words, too. Incoherent and mushy, but words all the same. I peel my eyes from the fan, slowly, to the door. That noise, the pulsing right beneath the edge of my awareness, is getting louder. Deeper. Screwing into my brain. God. I let out a thick, watery exhale, air pushed wetly through my teeth, tongue flopping like Jonah's fucking whale in my mouth. Am I imagining this? I could be. I really could be. I don't trust myself one goddamn iota right now, and my hands are shaking, trembling, like they want to rip the door off its hinge and crush it into someone's face. Maybe mine. Preferably mine. I tilt off the bed and let my center of mass rearrange itself like a jigsaw of sorry flesh and drink in that one weightless moment before the fall, the Oh-fuck-I-can't-pull-myself-back, and come crashing down into the carpeted floor. I eat a mouthful of lint. I bring myself to my knees and let the friction run red across my bare skin and use the bitten tips of my fingers to pull myself up on the corner of the bed – one, two, three, up – and then I'm standing for the first time in a week, uncertain like a toddler, rubber joints bending this way and that. I catch a glimpse of myself in the far mirror. My face is blotchy white and red in alternating patches. The thin skin around my eyes is so raw if I grazed it with my nail it would probably start to bleed. I wrench open the door and fling it nice and wide and stumble across the threshold before I can start laughing maniacally. It's not hard to follow the sound – I realize this very early on. The halls are empty. I trip my way down the stairs, shoulder open doors, cross the hundred feet from the girls' dormitory to the main building. Slap

my hand off-rhythm against lockers as I walk by. Against the soles of my feet, the scuff-marked vinyl feels good – cold. It's so funny, you'd think Windsor would've opted for something classier than fucking vinyl with the number of donations flowing in, marble or something, but maybe they decided it was an essential part of the high school experience. Or maybe they just didn't give a shit. I don't see her memorial on the way there. I'm grateful. By the time I reach the heavy double doors to the gym, the music is loud enough to fry my brain in my skull, and I can taste their frantic chords grow fat on the roof of my mouth. Copper and salt and sex. I push open the doors with one hand and walk in. It's so dark is the first thing I think. Then, immediately after: it's too bright. And the room is drowned in lights, psychedelic neon streaks, and everyone's moving like they're drowning, grinding into each other, swapping spit, getting wasted. The air is smog-thick, warm, reeking of sweat and human density and booze and worse. In the far corner of the room, some distance away from the main party, a circle of stoners draw shaky lines of coke on each other's forearms, faces contorted into wide smiles. And I'm here, again, like every Saturday night, like clockwork, because it's my favorite place in the world, because I love it here, because– Because it's been one fucking week. One week, I think distantly, as if through a large amount of water, as if through an Olympic pool, and everything is back to normal, just business as usual, just perfectly ordinary after-school fun. Vacate your neurons. Fuck up your liver. Fuck someone you can barely see whose name can be anything you want. I mean, it's not like anyone died. It's not like anyone drowned twenty feet away from you while you just watched, right? While I just fucking watched? And the question is what did I expect. And the question is why did I expect more. And I can make out the vague outline of Dean, right over there, next to the punch bowl, the scarlet of his letterman and the bright blond of his hair. The girl he's gyrating his hips into. The expression on his face. My brain is moving slowly, now, lethargically. Like the neural pathways are coated in Vaseline. I fall through the crowd, gripping collars of shirts and elbows and getting knocked like a pinball across the room, watching the fractals of brilliant light free-fall through the sky onto my exposed skin. Icarus, getting too close to the sun. And my body feels scalding in all the wrong places, red-hot, dripping melting into shiny flustered sweat and with the same chorus of the same song reverberating in my ears I find myself next to the punch bowl. The beer cans stacked in a Great Pyramid of glistening aluminum. And Dean. I look at him – he looks at me. Eyes wide and watery. Mouth set into a handsome twist of surprise, cherub pink lingering on his cheeks. Hands pressing close a waif of a girl with long hair down to her ass and lips like a Valentine candy heart. I feel something that could maybe be likened to bitterness but instead I look beyond him and his new girl at the writhing, unseeing, hundred-faced beast of the student body of the Windsor Academy for Nominally Catholic Rich Kids, and somewhere inside me, nestled in my guts or between the branches of my ribs, I realize Angie was more deeply right than I could have ever known. With hands that are not my hands I reach for the stem of the glass punch bowl and stare mesmerized at that cherry-sweet pool of spiked Kool-aid. With a mouth that is not my mouth I smile widely, all those perfect picket-fence-white teeth showing, and smash it against the ground. A half-moment after the shattering – while little flecks of glass are still spraying through the air like iridescent droplets from a bathtub – people are already reacting, frantically trying to wipe the splash of sugary red off their beautiful clothes, shouting Hey-what-the-fuck-was-that-for and Dean, especially, seems pissed, doesn't he? Pushing away his new sweetheart, storming toward me, tossing his letterman onto the ground, pulling off the freshly stained white t-shirt underneath. Angry, saying something. Saying lots of things. Lips flapping up and down, that big blue vein in his muscle-corded neck throbbing, broad chest puffed up. Maybe I should actually pay attention now. "–and I understand this last week has been rough on you, but for fuck's sake, Ella, you can't just storm in here and–" I unhinge my jaw, laugh a wild, bellowing laugh, and shove Dean away from me. He stumbles back a few paces, startled – catches himself – tightens his Superman jaw, narrows his cornflower blue eyes, and then, 361

with all the resolve of a war-hardened soldier, grabs me by the forearms and pulls me roughly away from the fractured ground-diamond remnants of the punch bowl on the floor. "You're insane," he says as he lifts me clean off the ground. You'reinsane-you're-fucking-insane whispered like a mantra under breath that smells like Listerine and whiskey. And he's holding me close against his warm bare chest like a baby, and I'm trying to kick him off as best I can, and I catch a glimpse of the parting crowd above the ridge of his toned shoulder. They're picking up the glow-sticks, now. Throwing paper napkins on the spilled punch, sweeping the glass under the tables. Turning up the music one, two, three notches for good measure.

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ASHLEY SHAN Photography | Greenhill School, Addison, TX

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S Y LV I E S H U R E Novel | Flintridge Preparatory School, La Cañada, CA

Zusya Walking Chapter 1 It was cold in Riga, frigid and busy and angry, but the little room hummed with heat. Jackets hung from the coat rack, hair stuck to sweaty foreheads, and the young men, almost twenty of them crowded in, laughed and talked as they wrote. Motke had finished his week’s work, but he had come anyway just to sit in the stuffy basement and listen to the chatter and smell the paper and the ink and the vodka. It was thrilling. It always was, and no matter how many times he sat in the same spot, hearing the same typewriters pounding away, it always would be. Wasn’t this how revolutions started? Didn’t change always grow, with the help of rowdy young men, in warm, dim basements? He used to find his adrenaline in fights, nothing serious, very juvenile. That had been enough when he was twelve, thirteen, but there was only so much that a few punches could do. It embarrassed him to think back on that time, now that he had years of separation from that phase. The newspaper felt infinitely more powerful, more dangerous, but in a way that didn’t include busted knuckles and black eyes and his mother’s disappointment. The paper was dangerous in an exciting way, in an impressive way. It came with horror stories to tell at parties, but it also came with relative security. Everyone was careful, and nothing had gone wrong yet, and the paper had been running for years. Gavrel, sitting across from Motke, stopped typing. He looked up with the same fevered concentration he had been aiming at his article moments before. “Have you heard that Elie’s going to America?” Motke smiled and nodded. It was only a rumor, but if it was true, if Elie left, then the paper would have no Editor in Chief, and someone would have to fill the void. Gavrel leaned forward. “If there’s an election, you’ll get it.” “I’m not sure. It could be anyone.” “Oh, come on! You’ve been here forever. Who else would it be?” “You’ve been here just as long as I have.” Gavrel laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never win an election in a million years.” “I bet you could if you wanted to,” Motke said. “If you just tried to be nice to everyone.” “Look, it’s going to be you. Nobody but me is even half as committed as you are, and nobody but you likes me. Elie wouldn’t even let me run. He thinks I write too much about pogroms.” Motke leaned back. Frowned. Maybe Gavrel really would have trouble in an election. He breathed in deeply. “I’ll tell you what. If I were in charge, the first thing I would do is start printing in Russian.” Gavrel’s eyebrows shot up, then settled into irritation. “That is the worst idea I’ve ever heard.” “Not many people speak Yiddish. Even some Jews don’t. We live in Russia. We should print our paper in the people’s language.” “I don’t want Russians reading our paper.” “I know plenty of Russians who might agree with us. Trotsky’s hardly the only revolutionary.” Gavrel glared at him. He smiled. “Oh, calm down. It’s not going to be me. I don’t even have time. You’ll be much better at it than I would.” 366

Gavrel squinted disbelievingly and pushed his hair up from his forehead. “You’re distracting me,” he mumbled, and went back to work. Motke felt an itch for a smoke, but his pockets were empty, so he closed his eyes and drummed his fingers on his legs, typing on an invisible keyboard. Anshel, Chaim’s friend, brushed past him, smugly hollering over his shoulder, “Not at all what I expected,” and Motke half-opened his eyes to watch him make his way across the room. Chaim, somehow, had managed to find the loudest, meanest, stupidest boys at the paper to hang around. When Motke had told him that his friends were trouble, Chaim had laughed. “You want me to be a socialist, but you don’t want me to have any socialist friends?” “Not like them,” Motke had tried to explain. “Anshel’s a criminal.” Chaim had just shouted, “So are we!” and ran the rest of the way home, whistling loudly enough that Motke still heard his tone-deaf renditions from blocks away. Motke had hoped Chaim would love the paper. He had hoped he would believe in it, truly, and fight for the cause, but Chaim had fallen in with Anshel and his thugs, whose twisted version of Socialism consisted mostly of petty theft. Chaim seemed relatively unchanged, though, still coming home early to help put the little ones to bed, still polite and respectful, still happy to help in the shop when he was needed. If he did sneak off at night to get drunk with Anshel and Hirsh and Sender, that was his business. “Just don’t bring them around the house,” Motke had finally conceded, and Chaim had enthusiastically agreed. Gavrel checked his watch and leaned forward again. “Fishel and I are going to get lunch. Do you want to come? You can bring Chaim if you want.” He shook his head absently. “I’m meeting Feigel.” Gavrel frowned at him with mock severity. “Where will the revolution be if the masses are with their girlfriends?” “When the revolution comes, my friend, I’ll be in the streets, but I told Feigel I’d meet her at noon.” He smiled at the thought of it. He could just see her, her brown hair pulled up, wearing that green dress that made her look so charming, her red lips and blue eyes lighting up with a smile when she looked at him. He could just hear the soft, low hum of her voice. “At noon?” Gavrel asked. “Right.” Gavrel smiled impishly. “Motke…” “What?” “Motke, it’s nearly 12:30.” “What?” Gavrel held up his watch to prove it. Motke’s stomach turned cold for a second. “Oh, she’s going to kill me.” Gavrel laughed. “Just don’t go. Come out with us.” “No, she’ll really kill me. You know what she’s like. Tell Chaim I won’t be out late.” Gavrel shook his head, grinning, and Motke grabbed his coat and ran to leave. What could she be thinking? He tried not to imagine her eyes squinting up, her mouth puckered off to one side, the delicate angry lines cutting into her forehead. Maybe she forgot, too. Maybe she wasn’t there at all.

He knew she hadn’t forgotten, though, and he knew her fists were balling up even then, tighter and tighter, as she waited for him. She would be angry. He could already imagine what she would say. She would also forgive him, though, like always. In a day or two, or maybe in an hour, they’d be back to normal and laughing and smiling at each other. She always forgave him. He thought about her smile again, her eyes crinkling, and his heart swelled with how much loved her. He wondered what their children would look like. She liked to imagine them with blue eyes, but Motke hoped at least one of them would look like him. No matter what color their eyes, though, they would be perfect, and he smiled at the thought of a little cluster of round-cheeked children at his feet. That would be a few years off, and now was only a matter of meeting her in the park, but it occurred to him that business at the shoe shop had been a little better, and maybe her father would be more convinced by an offer of marriage. He would have to ask Feigel what she thought about that. He swung the door open and slowed to a standstill. There they were, all polished boots and polished buttons on thick wool overcoats. There they came, just down the street. There they were. The Tsar’s officers, equally surprised to see him, momentarily frozen on the way to barge into their safe little basement. There were four of them, and they all looked so tall, so official, with their hats and their mustaches. They looked so cool, so Russian, so sinister. He slammed the door shut, locked it. His hands were shaking, his heart was racing, but his mind was blank and numb. Why were they there? He tried to think of a reason. Any reason at all. None. Empty. It didn’t make any sense. They couldn’t be there. How could they have known? How did they know? They had always done everything right, no mistakes, no blunders, no way that they would get caught. They had been so careful. But the Tsar came anyway. There was nothing in Motke’s stomach but empty space, nothing in his body, just empty. Why were they there? And what was he supposed to do? The only option left was to be somewhere else, somewhere where the officers were not, so he turned around and he yelled, “Run!” No one moved. The chatter quieted. Motke looked at them helplessly. Gavrel arched an eyebrow at him, and someone coughed in the corner. Why weren’t they going? Why weren’t they going? Gavrel was the first to understand. Of course he would be. He stood up slowly, his face going pale, lips pressed together. Chaim stood up, too, his brows knit in confusion, and Motke looked at him. Slowly, he heard the other young men start to realize. “Run,” he repeated. The room burst into motion. Gavrel set to burning loose papers. A few others—Fishel, Sender—went to help him, the rest, about ten young men, flocked to the back wall. The window, the only way out, was jammed, but someone threw a book through it, and as the glass fell to the ground, the men started to clamber up and out. Motke ran to help them, to stand under the window and bolster their feet, to push them outside. In just one instant, as the officers reached the end of the walkway and started banging on the door, their futures folded up into themselves. The men, so recently activists and journalists and fighters, were reduced to kicking feet and clawing hands as they writhed their way out through the too-small window. They had always known, of course, that this was a possibility. They had known that to print a socialist newspaper was a dangerous thing, but somehow, they had thought that they would be immune. They had thought they had been careful, that they could outsmart the danger. They had thought that the Tsar would never come looking for them. Now, everywhere he turned, Motke saw only stupidity. Why had they never bothered to put a ladder by the window? Why hadn’t they disposed of the records in the back room? Just horror stories, they had thought.

Now the Tsar was beating against the flimsy wooden door, and it was groaning in protest, buckling and splintering and at the edge of total collapse. Motke could feel his head throbbing with the weight of what was about to happen. They would rush in and they would usher him away and he would never see Riga again. No more cobbled streets, no more stone buildings, no more home. Just one minute ago, he had been on his way to see Feigel. Just one minute. He wondered what would happen to their little room after they were gone. It would probably be let out to some sweet young family. Would they ever think about who had been there before them? Would they ever think about the young men—freezing and dying—who hadn’t managed to escape? Would they think about the cold? The cold winds and the cold ground and the cold winter that never ended? Motke had never seen cold before, not really. Only from indoors, only from a fireside, maybe venturing out for minutes at a time. He hadn’t slept in—in—the snow with nothing but a too-thin jacket and his own body heat. He had never known cold with no escape. He had read stories, even written a few, about the march, about the journey, about the prisons, but he didn’t know anything about it. Nothing but facts, death and beatings and death, statistics, nothing but horrible facts. He didn’t know what it would be like. He didn’t know what it would feel like, he didn’t know how his muscles would respond, how his feet would survive that endless marching, how his spine would keep from breaking under all the labor. The only thing he knew was where they wanted to take him, and that was the worst thing there was and if he thought about it even for a second he would shut down completely and his mind would die so he would just have to never think about it at all. It was really alright, actually, because the pounding on the door mixed with the pounding in his head and the throbbing red blur that replaced his vision and the taste of bile rising bitterly in his mouth and the smell of death in the distance and everything drowned in the confusion so it was impossible to think at all and he was safe. Someone, pulling himself out through the window, swung his boot into Motke’s mouth. The noise stopped. Motke turned to look, his mouth slowly filling with blood. The wood had splintered and broken around the lock, the door had crashed to the ground, furiously bright sunlight invading the space, and nothing stood between him and the officers but empty air. Nearly everyone, somehow, had managed to force their way out of the window. The only people left were Motke, Gavrel, Fishel, Sender, and Chaim. Chaim. Motke felt sick. He should have known. He should have known. He never should have let him come to a single meeting. The boy was barely old enough to shave, and now his life was over. Motke should have known this would happen. How selfish, how evil of him to drag his little brother along, to bring him into a place of danger, to make a criminal of him. To steal away his home and his life and his future. And for what? What had Chaim gotten, besides some sniveling little friends and an arrest warrant? “Chaim,” he said, and the officers were getting closer now, “I’m sorry.” They boy looked up at him, eyes wide. “I wanted to help,” he said. Motke’s arms felt heavy. His mind ached. He was shaking, he realized, overflowing with adrenaline and despair. The officers reached Gavrel first, and he raised his fists to fight, and he struck out, and Motke couldn’t watch. Siberia was coming. That was unbearably clear. There was no way to stop it, nothing to do. His heart was beating in a way he had never heard before, all fast and frightened and flickering. He could hear the officers as they fought with his friends, he could hear them getting closer to him, so he stepped forward and he felt his face going red and he realized with a wrench in his stomach that there was nothing really left to do but fight. Chapter 2 The other prisoners, Russians, had already been walking. He didn’t know for how long. Long enough. 367

Long enough that they had just watched, sitting like ghosts at the side of the road, as the guards had grabbed the five newcomers and held them down and shaved their heads, one half only, a sharp vertical line running down the middle of their scalps. They had watched as the guards snapped shackles on their ankles, already too tight, already pinching skin and slowing circulation. One of them had laughed, loud and biting. Long enough, then. Long enough that they could hardly remember when the same thing had happened to them. Their faces were haggard, gray, their skin translucent. Their skeletons were beginning to peek through, cheekbones and elbows, eyes drowning in sockets that had grown too deep. When the wind blew, it seemed like it would knock them over, but they bared their teeth and set their brows and stared off into the empty landscape. Motke tried not to look at them. He tried not to understand the feral hunger in their faces. He tried to believe he was immune to it. For a moment, he wondered if any of them had families, siblings, girlfriends. If any of them had beautiful little lives that they were leaving behind. “I hate them,” Gavrel whispered. Motke nodded and looked at him. Gavrel’s nose had been broken in the fight. It sat in the center of his face, crooked and swollen and purple. He kept saying that it didn’t hurt, but there was blood caked on his upper lip and he winced every time he blinked. “I only wish,” he said, “that I had known they would be here. I would have just killed myself, rather than be stuck with them.” “We’ll die anyway,” Chaim muttered from behind them. Motke clicked his tongue, his eyes welling up with water. “Nobody’s dying.” A reflex. Chaim had come out of the fight badly. He was too young, still growing, and he had hardly been able to hit back. He had bruises forming around both eyes. Motke suspected he had broken a rib, too, but there was no way to be sure unless the boy told him. “We’ll freeze,” Chaim said. Motke shook his head. “If we were going to freeze, we would have done it in Riga. It’s always been cold and it hasn’t killed us so far.” “Well, now we’ll be sleeping outside,” Gavrel said, and Motke frowned at him. He was right. “It’s true,” said Fishel. “We’re dead. We’ll never see Riga again.” Motke sighed. “That’s not—” Fishel pressed on. “I always wanted to open a bakery. Now what?” Sender looked up, a sedated smirk on his lips. “There are bakers in Siberia.” “What do they do? They bake the ice into water?” “Shut up!” bellowed one of the guards without bothering to look back at them, and the five of them lapsed into silence. Motke looked at the ground. Already, his footprints stretched behind him farther than he could see. It was incredible how far a matter of hours had brought them. He didn’t recognize anything around him. He had never left Riga before, and now he felt like he was in an entirely different universe. He couldn’t believe that this was the same country, even the same world, that held his home. He wondered if Feigel was still waiting for him. Was she still angry, or starting, now, to be worried? If he had just left on time, then he could be with her. Instead, he was here, trampling down muddy snow, and maybe he would never see her again. She must have been so confused. She must have been scared. Of course, if he had left on time, then Chaim would be alone. At least Chaim wasn’t alone. But now Feigel was. And his parents. He remembered his family with a jolt. He hadn’t even thought about his family. With him and Chaim gone, the oldest child still at home was only thirteen, and a girl. She wouldn’t be able to work, really. His parents would have the money they made, but still, it wouldn’t be enough to feed the four children still there. Would they starve? He hadn’t considered until that moment. Would he ever see them again? The youngest was only seven years old. Would she even remember him? 368

He wanted to cry and he wanted to vomit, and he couldn’t stop imagining them all alone. What kind of a son was he? What kind of a brother? “We really are going to die,” Chaim whispered. Motke shook his head. “How can you—” The guard spun around, his gun pointing in their direction, and Motke found it impossible to look away from the hideous metal thing, from the dirty pink fingers wrapped around it. “I swear on all things holy,” said the officer, “if I hear one more word of that fucking language I will put a bullet in each of your little kike brains.” Nobody spoke. After a moment, the guard grunted and turned back around. “Go shit in the ocean,” Gavrel said to his back. “I’d rather die than speak a word of Russian to any one of them.” “Well,” said Fishel, “those, it seems, are our two options.” He laughed nervously, thinly. Motke didn’t listen. Their anxious babble turned to a slow steady hum behind him. The guards—all four of them—had been on edge the whole day. They probably hadn’t been expecting much of a fight. They probably had imagined that the socialist Jews would be scrawny, starving pacifists who would open the door for them and hold out their hands to be fettered. One of the guards had lost a tooth. All of them were covered in bruises, though less so than their victims. None of them were happy. Motke felt it was important to understand the other side of every conflict. He felt it was wrong to judge others, and he felt he was very good at believing the best of people. In this case, however, he found that he didn’t care. He didn’t care how long the guards had been walking, he didn’t care how long it had been since they had had a good meal, and he didn’t care how long they had gone without seeing their families. He found that he hated them. Not because they were Russian and not because they were Tsarists, but because they had taken it on themselves to be hateful to him. Hateful with their eyes, with their leering mouths, and with their fingers clinging to the freezing metal of their guns. That was it, really. The guns. All that power, so thoughtlessly awarded to those men. Why was it that those four angry men were allowed to shoot and to kill and to threaten and the rest of them were left to be shot? Motke had never held a gun before. He tried to imagine what it would feel like in his hands. Solid. Heavy. Cold. He imagined its mass as he raised it. As he lifted his arms, he could almost feel the resistance. He could feel it dragging through the air, and he could feel it settle into place against his shoulder. When he squinted through the scope, he could see the deadly little cross, lined up perfectly between the guard’s shoulder blades. He stood for a moment, stock-still, his arms raised, his finger hovering over an invisible trigger, aiming at the so-hated man. His arms trembled from the weight. He couldn’t see outside the scope of the rifle. Everything was blurry but the moving shoulder blades and the sound of his own breath and the cold. This was how it felt to hold death in his hands. This was what it meant to carry the only decision that mattered. He grew dizzy with the weight of it, and a sick excitement formed in the pit of his stomach. His heart beat heavy in his ears. His lips were dry and his breath was ragged. The guard just rambled forward, oblivious. Motke pulled the trigger. In his mind, the noise was deafening. The guard staggered, then dropped to his knees, then crumpled into a pile of blood and bones and death. He could see the muddy soul rising up from the body and the steam where the hot blood mixed with the cold air. He could smell gunpowder and death and bile and death. “What are you doing?” He let his arms drop and the world came back into focus. Gavrel stared at him, shaking his head in bewilderment, and the others, too. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Just going to stand there forever? How long until someone notices your charades?”

He smiled, embarrassed. “I wasn’t really thinking,” he said. Gavrel furrowed his brow, breathed out heavily, then turned around. Chaim started to laugh. “You’re so stupid.” Some of the Russians, he realized, were laughing too. He felt his face start to burn, but he just grinned and hit Chaim lightly on the shoulder as he caught up with them. “We’ll be okay, I think,” Motke said. “How do you know?” Motke looked at him. The boy still had a smile lingering on his face. “I think.” Chapter 3 The Russians had started a fire in the center of the cement floor, and Motke could hear it crackling from the fringes of the warehouse, too far to feel the warmth. The five of them were huddled in a small circle away from the Russians, and Motke couldn’t feel his fingers. They were still close enough to civilization to rest in disused buildings, claimed by the Tsar, still empty and arid and stinging with cold, but a roof, at least. Fishel rubbed his hands together and looked at the ceiling. “We’re going to freeze like this,” he said. “Yes, let’s talk about it,” said Sender, his mouth curling. “That’ll make it better.” “Well, why not? We’re going to freeze like this.” He frowned, sent glinting eyes over to the Russians, leaned in to the center of the circle. “What are we doing? If we ran right now, we could be in Riga in five hours.” Gavrel arched an eyebrow. “You’d be caught in 30 minutes. Or killed.” Fishel shook his head. “Not if you’re smart about it.” “Fine,” said Gavrel. “Imagine you get back to Riga. Somehow they don’t notice, and you get back. Then what? You want to crouch around in the streets? Hide from cops behind lampposts? You’re a fugitive, Fishel. As long as we’re in Russia, we all are.” Fishel swallowed. “Then I’ll go somewhere else.” “Then you’ll die,” Gavrel said, snarling almost, the pink of his gums showing over his teeth. “You’ll get shot, or you’ll die on the way.” Fishel’s nose was red. “I don’t care if I die.” Gavrel looked at him darkly. “Well, you do what you want. I want to live.” Sender let out a sudden, harsh laugh, brutally out of place in the stagnant, frigid air. Chaim turned to Motke. “I miss our family,” he said, his voice cracking. Motke looked at him. “We’re together.” The boy shook his head. “I miss everyone.” Chaim’s eyes were glossy, darting around restlessly. Motke wondered if he had been crying. How had he not noticed him crying? “And now,” Chaim continued, “we’ll never see them again.” “We will,” Motke said, quietly, firmly, and he hoped he sounded convincing. “We’ll die.” Chaim cut him off before he could start to argue. “That man was going to shoot us for speaking Yiddish. He was going to kill us. How long do you think it’ll take for each of us to get shot? Or freeze? They won’t even let us around the fire.” Motke nodded. It was bitterly cold. They could smell the fire’s warmth more than they could feel it, and the cement they sat on was as cold as the ground outside. Chaim was making dangerous sense, and Motke couldn’t just let his words sit there, so ugly and true and terrifying. “Haven’t you read the stories? They’re overwhelmed. The guards hardly notice when two or three prisoners slip off. As soon as we have a good plan—as soon as we get a chance, you and I are gone.” He tried, as he talked, to sound optimistic, but his voice had a slight shake in it. “Then we just have to find a boat, and then we’ll be in America.” Sender, listening, scoffed. “America?” Motke nodded. “Right. To live with Shmuel. I bet we could even work in his shop.” Chaim shook his head. “Shmuel doesn’t even remember us. I don’t remember him.”

“Of course you don’t! You could barely talk when he left. But he remembers us. He took care of us when we were young, and he’ll help us now. He always says in his letters that I can come live with him if I want.” “We don’t even speak English.” “That’s a good point,” Sender said. Motke waved a dismissive hand. “That, I’m not worried about. If we can just get to America, everything will be alright. And,” he was starting to get excited now, his eyes shining, “once we’re there, Feigel can come over. And we can get married.” He put a hand on Chaim’s shoulder. “Then she and I will take care of you, and Shmuel won’t even have to anymore.” He smiled, enjoying the path he had laid out for himself, a straight line to life as it used to be. “It’ll be fine.” Chaim nodded cautiously, his mouth pinched up. Fishel grinned. “I’ll marry Feigel,” he imitated. “You’re a schmuck.” “Oh,” Sender cut in, “of course he’ll marry Feigel. With tits as big as hers? Please.” “Don’t forget,” said Gavrel, smiling slyly, “that the question is not whether Motke will marry Feigel. It’s whether Feigel will marry Motke.” Motke let his mouth drop clownishly, placated by the mundanity of the insult. “You think you’re funny, Gavrel? I’ll beat those jokes out of you.” “No,” said Sender, “it’s true. If you weren’t rich enough for her in Riga, you won’t be rich enough in America.” “I’m not rich enough for her father,” Motke corrected, curling his hands up into his coat sleeves to try and warm them. “She loves me.” “Love? Is that what you’re calling it?” “It’s okay,” Motke said. “I know you’re just jealous. It is awfully sad that no woman would ever come within five feet of you.” “If they’re women like Feigel,” Chaim said, “I wouldn’t want them within five feet.” “He’s turning against you, Motke,” Fishel said, and Motke grinned. “Listen,” he said. “I know you’re all having a good time making fun of me, but I think we should probably try to get some sleep.” Gavrel nodded, and the five of them lay down and closed their eyes. The soft orange heat of the fire had finally started to reach them, and for a moment, Motke could almost believe that he was warm as he drifted into sleep.

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E L I Z A B E T H S H VA R T S Spoken Word | Staten Island Technical High School, Staten Island, NY

This Land is Your Land (Fees Subject to Change At Any Moment) America is not a dream you fall asleep to; Salvation set against the green-screen backdrop of succulent sequoia pines and sunsets dripping with milk and honey so sickly sweet it stains enamel gold We gulp the Gulf Stream waters guzzle oil spills as if to alchemize our bones Ivory into ichor into imperialist icon lest our limbs remain contorted in the shape of the dash beforeJewish-American Soviet-American Bisexual-American Blue collar-American Bed-bound-American Undocumented-American Robbed-rent-American Starving-American-Dying-American Running-out-of-time-American Land of the free, home of the forgotten But paradise is a dinner table set for one We pledge allegiance to the bread crusts and bullet shells Uncle Sam passes around the dinner table Lady Liberty stirs the melting pot leaving no spice unused no pulp unsqueezed no skin unpeeled but Uncle Sam clamps a muzzle on our mouths before we can reclaim the taste of freshly-kneaded pierogies and pakoras fried golden brown garlic cloves and turmeric and cardamom simmering on stovetop Instead we burn our tongues until our papillae learn to process only PB and J sink our teeth into Smuckers jam splayed out like blood to water fields of plenty Uncle Sam tells us to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps when our feet are bare and blistered we can’t afford an Uber to the golden gates “Happily ever after” is received on a first come, first serve basis packaged and sealed by the last to receive keys to the room where it happens and the first to be evicted So we learn how to slam fork and knife loud enough to wake the neighbors Inversion of star-spangled symphony into dissonance divestment Till we stitch together the chords of a new song: “This land is your land is my land From the bodega corners to marble courtroom floors From morning rush melodies to the voice of my people our people rising above the cacophony of corporations chugging and churning and choosing to leave our lives on the chopping block Our refrain rings from behind the golden door: This land is made for you and me forever”

370

Canary in a Coal Mine Canary in a coal mine is a candlewick lit by the coarse hands of alleyways and broad daylight and right next to the grocery store in front of my mother ruffled by wolf-whistle breeze Frightened canary fizzles in a shower of gold feather fragments before she can learn the difference between hearth and hellfire Canary in a coal mine is a porcelain doll nestled between twigs and twine wrought into iron bars wings furled into limp limbs lost limbs bound limbs unable to fly Little did she know “handle with care” was a punchline not a promise Canary in a coal mine is captive crystal commodity Taxidermy tucked under Plexiglas away from dirt-caked fingernails poised to pry her wings apart

And I wondered whether my wings would too be clipped Whether my voice not quite chirp not quite birdsong would be sore from shredding my larynx to get out a single note like I was a Canary in a coal mine no longer sings total-throated golden-noted arias Instead she learns to hum a battle cry learns to fly away close enough to taste the moon-drunk sky six feet above ground She learns to drink the moon with saucer eyes because she has no hands to come home to Canary in a coal mine learns to dream of smoke Dust and ashes ashes and dust Billowing into phoenix Canary shatters coal mine, infinity reborn

Canary in a coal mine is told to keep singing sing baby chirp in tremolo tongue licked by the flame of an oil lamp sing sweetheart don’t scream Scream don’t scream “help” scream “fire” don’t you know property has a limited warranty don’t confuse love with fear of liability You’ll need nightclub ticket stub you’ll need skirt hem you’ll need to measure the inches of bare skin between navel and blouse bottom before you dare open your mouth Canary in a coal mine is just another news story: “Cheap chick sexed sin slut should have saw it coming” Virginity is a flower until it wilts; a rose by any other name bitter to taste I am eleven years old when I read about Brock Turner try to fit his syllables into my mouth as if swallowing sawdust try to dislodge the pit in my throat when I read headline that might as well say Stanford Swimmer Gets 6 Months For “20 Minutes of Action” Rape is met by a light rap on the knuckles for those whose hands are of gold-leaf marijuana joints and fingers that sprawl like spiders into the fabric of a stranger’s skirt His hands soak in chlorine ablution soot-stained claws restless to re(a)p(e) the rewards of tearing down a temple that was never his to worship don’t blaspheme me with wolf-toothed slack-jawed grin don’t offer me the gin you spiked when I left for the bathroom as if it were holy wine both Eve and Adam sharpened teeth to steak-knife bit wing-thin skin right out the apple but only one got a stomach-ache

371

S H E I N A - R U T H S K U Y- M A R C A N Photography | David Posnack Jewish Day School, Davie, FL

Sleep Digital photography 2020 372

Breathe Digital photography 2020 373

ALEXANDRA SLABAKIS Visual Arts | Marymount School, New York, NY

The Times Melted Tyvek paper, thread and projection mapping 2020 374

America the Broken PPE, fabric, thread, media recordings and projection mapping 2020 375

GR ACE Q SONG

Poetry | William A. Shine Great Neck South High School, Great Neck, NY

Analysis of Light

Coney Island, New York

When our thighs are slick with saltwater we slip on flip flops and mercy. She runs toward the blinking fair, only sixteen and skinny. I watch the lights devour her in sharp angles. Neon never lies, but I can’t remember her body, the one she shed last winter. I don’t tell her this. Too much holds us inescapable, like an iron night. Half a ferris wheel later, we sway in this strange anchor, each capsule a lone, red cell. I pop the top of my Bud Light and drink glass shards stuck in my throat. I’m sorry I love in dishonest ways, told myself I’d love her more in the dark. I was wrong about the time I thought she’d die the time she closed her eyes and fell— head hitting the edge of the bathtub. Listen. Full moons lead baby sea turtles back home but a car, bright as a city, snaps their spine in two. Like them, we’ll die with our eyes glowing in hunger or bone-white confusion.

376

RESTORATION

after Camille T. Dungy

After people died and everyone went home, Kashmiri mountain goats in Wales captured a town and paraded their victory. In Spain Nubian ibexes descended from their mountain and saw the ocean for the first time. The Venice river exhaled sand and shells and shoals of fish, and dolphins left saltwater, venturing into canals. Cormorants dove with black-scaled wings, scattered orange crabs. When hedgehogs safely crossed London streets, Sika deer escaped the Tokyo zoo in search of adventure. Baboons munched on India’s streetgrass, and pumas leapt above Brazil’s brick walls. Hundreds of Hawksbill sea turtles hatched on moon-silent shores. There were African wild dogs, frolicking on golf courses, and lions sleeping in the middle of the road. Pronghorns stampeding back to California; black bears climbing Iowa trees again, their mouths sweet with spring berries. Within months, all the wild things returned. Rebirth, like wolves released into Yellowstone. It’s true I want this scene today and forever: clear rivers and unshakable mountains. Trees straightening overhead and clouds softening cliffs. Let me holdfast to a flowering, fenceless land. Let me holdfast to all the animals wandering, unafraid.

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JULIE SONG

Photography | Bergen County Academies, Hackensack, NJ

A Refuge from the Onslaught if Stress Digital photography 2019 378

I Am Okay Digital photography 2019 379

L AUR A STERNBACH

Design Arts | Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts, New York, NY

Magazine Dress Paper, mod podge, fabric and tape 2019 380

Bryce Canyon Dress Hand-dyed silk fabric and cardboard 2019 381

YEJIN SUH

Creative Nonfiction | Glen Rock High School, Glen Rock, NJ

Batmen While I was sticking bandaids over my nipples, I realized I’d forgotten to lock the door. If my mom walked in, she’d ask, “What the hell are you doing,” in that mild way of hers, and I’d have to explain that I always wear bandaids under thin shirts because it wasn’t socially acceptable for women’s nipples to be visible through thin shirts after centuries of patriarchal rule, except bras are physically detrimental to our bodies, and it was ninety degrees and climbing out, so I had to stick to the bandaids, like covering up an injury—two blasted wounds on my chest that weren’t supposed to be there. Luckily, she never walked in on me. Half an hour later we sat sprawled along my favorite spot along the Hudson—this rundown park bench on a cliff off the Palisades Interstate Highway—with my band-aids affixed. Across the span of water stretched dappled trees like small Brussels sprouts, country eventually fading into fogged city skyline. We were talking about my dad. Actually, she was talking about my dad, and I was holding a dandelion between my thumb and index finger. “He’s good,” she was saying. I shrugged. “He is,” she insisted. “Just… misguided. He doesn’t know how to show it. But he’s trying his best.” I have this recurring daydream where the Founding Fathers come back to life. Through cryogenics, or something—the logistics don’t really matter—and I’m singularly tasked with the job of acclimating them to the modern, 21st-century world. I was trying to head back to this daydream now. First I’d take them to this very spot. “Look,” I’d nudge George Washington with an elbow—because we were friendly and companiable like that, “That bridge is named after you.” Him in his 18th-century garb, white linen knickers and knee socks, me in my Nikes and respectably thin shirt, no bra. He’d gaze on the bridge with muted, pleased surprise. He’d be so pleased, in fact, that I wouldn’t mention that his bridge was a motorist’s true nightmare, the source of endless, irrefutable misery and frustration for hundreds of thousands of commuters on the daily: the slow stretch of corporate cogs in clean-pressed suits, tapping wary fingers against the sides of their Lincolns; the college kickbacks with their feet up on their convertible dashboards; my own mother hurling an evocative Konglish cocktail curse mix at her own steering wheel; every one of them strapped in bumper to bumper in baking summer heat or that mindnumbing East Coast winter. If I had all the Founding Fathers lined up side-by-side on my park bench, I could pick any one of them to be my new dad. Or all of them—a paternal horde. Every family dinner would be a roiling political debate— and don’t even get me started on movie nights. Watching old sitcoms while Hamilton and Jefferson argue over whether to take the punchlines literally or not. “Are you listening to me?” she snapped. I nodded. The flower was smithereens between my fingers. She pressed, “So what do you think.” It wasn’t really a question so much as a warning that if I wasn’t listening closely, she’d continue to talk, or if I was listening too closely, she’d also continue to talk—landmines in every direction. “I agree.” “With what?” “...With what you said.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. 382

My mom has this unyielding philosophy that people never change. Parts of us might, sure, but at our innermost, deepest core, we don’t budge, not really. I think the opposite is true—which is why it was painful, really, for me to be insisting that my dad was more or less genetically programmed to be an asshole, while she waxed poetic about his spectacular growth. She looked at me, said earnestly, “He didn’t mean it, you know. He loves you.” I nodded. //

There’s that running joke where you can say literally anything you want under the sun in America except for one exception: the nuclear trigger that is the dreaded c-word. In season 1, episode 3 of the Harley Quinn show—this new ‘dark humor’ animated R-rated spin on Gotham villains—no one bats an eye when a villain smashes cars together and slams Wonder Woman into the side of a building, but after he calls her the c-word during a fight, the Earth literally stops turning. He’s disowned by his supervillain clique, cancelled by the public, and desperately tries to salvage his rep on national talk shows. Now, trying to learn the cuss hierarchy of a language I’ve been forgetting in increments since kindergarten? Kind of like playing with fire. I mean, it’s like groping for something in the dark, like catching a ball in a game where you don’t know the rules. I wanted the definition, the nuance, the subtle shades of this delectable word that made it this perfect verbal suckerpunch. I wanted the whole toolbox, see. Like, which word should I pull out today? The one that’ll sting, one that’s abrasive, the one that’s honest to God funny, and should I pair it with this delectable word sandwich, between Jesus and Christ, or what? I’d stay up all night trying to translate a word and guess at its day-in-the-life context in its origin country three thousand miles away across the Yellow Sea. Luckily, there are plenty of Internet discussions to peruse about learning the Korean language, between k-pop obsessed weaboo fetishists, slow first-generation immigrant children like me, and jobless white saviors with dreams of teaching English to rural South Asian villagers in run-down jungle huts. In one Duolingo chatroom, AnimeTittyLover3960 enlightened us: No, this one’s a real curse word. It’s usually only used in situations of serious anger, not casually. It doesn’t really have a direct English translation, but it’s like a combination of b*tch, wh*re, c*nt, and idiot. And [heart]Jimin[heart] countered: really? my friend’s mom calls her kids that affectionately all the time tho. And yet someone else said: “He didn’t mean it, you know.” I sighed, nodded again. I imagined John Adams staring me in the face and screaming, C*nt! Parchment flying everywhere. //

The most surprising part of all is that it was never surprising to begin with. My dad’s girlfriend at the time busted into a bar and threw her drink in his face because he was flirting with my future mom. When my mom tells that story now, I’m like, “Don’t you think that’s kind of a red flag?” and she shrugs and says, “I was impressed. Felt good to have a man like that.” Then I think something like: how in the ever living (cuss) could anyone fall for such a cocky, brash, emotionally constipated, borderline evil, self-loathing, brooding, narcissistic, apathetic, highhorse, womanizing male? Then I remember I crushed on characters like Batman for most of my childhood. Accusing my mom of giving into her misogynistic-inclined tendencies is sort of like blaming her for breathing

oxygen. Kind of inevitable. It’s the sort of thing that that makes me clamp down on my feelings, stick band-aids over my nipples, made me idolize this freak superhero/vigilante to the ends of the Earth because he was precisely everything I ever wanted to be, which was really, when it boiled down to it—-not a woman. So I’m thinking of my mom, maybe ten or eleven, wrapped up in her bed in this dingy little apartment somewhere south of Seoul trying to fall asleep, and her dad busting into her room at three in the morning, drunk off his ass, shaking her awake and slurring nonsense words in her ear. It’s like how the crime rate in Gotham City has never gone down, even after all those nights of Batman’s head-bashing and teeth-gritting. Villains just pop up over and over again like some kind of disease. And if I were a better person, a better girl, maybe I wouldn’t say things to her like, “I guess you like it when men treat you like dirt.” And then I think about Bruce Wayne beating the ever-living shit out of me. Sometimes letting people hurt you is the only way you can get them to put their hands on you. Even I understand that. //

Usually at the start of these spells I stand stock-still in my room, staring at the map of the world plastered across my wall. So many different craggy shorelines, slabs of continents, hundreds of tiny islands ringing one another, other places I could be, and I’d be standing in this nondescript suburban townhouse in New Jersey taking this shit. I finally understand, vaguely, what makes a home a home. It’s not really the people, or the physical feel of it—it’s really how much that cuss stings on a scale from one to ten, and how much that great, ugly thing burgeoning in your throat rears its head. It’s how much you want to escape and how many times you’re told to head upstairs and lock your doors. Because when someone is screaming in your face, “This is my home/my rules/my ground/etcetera,” you don’t really feel you belong, surprisingly. And staring at the world map, I couldn’t really do anything except head to some other world, where I was showing James Madison our roomba. “It’s kind of like a pet, but it’s not alive,” I’d say, watching it bump around my desk legs. “It’s a little robot that cleans the floors.” He’d hum thoughtfully. Every time she’d say, “He didn’t mean it, you know,” I wanted to wring her out and scream, That’s the entire problem! The problem is, that he didn’t mean it! The problem is, that he says and does these things with terrifying callousness. But I didn’t say a thing. Like how none of us ever said a thing sitting down at our dinner table, day after day, ignoring the elephant—or scratch that, not an elephant, an overgrown Tyrannosaurus Rex with freakish proportions—sitting dumbly in the kitchen. I never really did decode the cuss hierarchy, even though I looked it up over and over again grasping at straws, trying to cross this bridge I’d lost a decade ago through my ancestors, because I wanted to know this word just for that semblance of dignity. That little morsel of self-worth you try to salvage after someone’s backhanded you across space—-someone twice your size, someone larger and louder who takes up all the air in a room, someone who shows it on their face, someone who, worst of all, knows all this and does it anyway. //

In the famous four-issue storyline Batman: A Death in the Family #428, Joker beats Robin to death. Then Robin comes back to life, and he’s out for revenge against Batman. He trains for years to kill Batman. The first time my dad left for Korea for a long while, we didn’t know when we’d see him again. My mom wept in the airport. I hated her for it. I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and yell in her face: Can’t you see we are feeling the same thing inside? When you let it out, you make it worse. You confirm the existence of a hole that isn’t supposed to be there. You transform a feeling into reality, when you show it on your face. If I let go of anything, I’ll catch myself. I have to watch myself. Sometimes I almost feel like I’m hunting myself—-waiting for my face to slip up and confess, dissolve into prayer, right between my crosshairs: Gotcha. Where’s your control now? I watched him board the plane. Trained my face into something I hoped was cold and hard. He’d call me once he landed on the other side, but I knew I’d just let my phone ring itself into oblivion. Because I hated him. Because the truth of it was, I’d spent years loitering outside his office at home on the off-chance he might invite me in to ask about my day. A single curt dismissal from him was

enough to make my eyes water, though I’d never dare cry in front of him. My childhood with him in public is one long string of memories of him cussing out waiters in restaurants, slamming the front door on campaigners, and storming out of car dealerships with salesmen chasing after him. He could suck the air out of a room and bring grown adults to tears in public. I idolized him for that. I wanted nothing else in the entire world than for that office door to creak open, for him to wave me inside. Give me that nod of approval. I was seventeen now, far past that childish idolatry, yet the part of me that strained for that nod, that murmur of love, was enough for me to turn against myself. I hated him. Because I’d slotted myself between my dresser and wall upstairs a week before, because I wanted to be surrounded on three sides, dreading the heavy thud of footsteps climbing up, the drunken breath slurring through the door. In the end, it all boiled down to control. The Bat lurking between walls, preying on whoever he deems the next suspect, taking them down in the dark. He had power, absolutely all the power he could ever drain and suck out of the house, and I had none. I was terrified. I was hopeless. But most importantly, I was jealous, and I wanted that power turned on me. Boarding that plane, he was choosing to give me absolutely nothing, not even rejection. And he knew it. //

In the Tower of Babel Issues #43-36, Bats gets kicked out of the Justice League because it turns out he’s got plans to wipe all of them out in case any of them go bad or get mind-controlled. That’s his whole thing, I guess: stacking contingency plan on top of contingency plan on top of plan until every single variable has been more or less accounted for, and anyone who the plan’s been written against has every exit blocked for anyone targeted in the plan. It’s blatant paranoia and a desperate grab for dominance, but since a guy’s doing it, he’s just a mastermind planner. My dad went halfway around the world, and I was sure that, eventually, he’d recognize his crippling need for the people he depended on, realize that with no one to impress and no one to flatter, his purpose would be extinguished. I was wrong. He detached. He found others. He was flexible. It was like a game: I knew he didn’t give a shit about me, and he knew I didn’t give a shit about him, yet we were still bound by an inextricable, fine thread. I updated him regularly on the monumental progressions of my coming-of-age narrative: driver’s license, December SAT, 17th birthday in the city. It’s because he knew, in the end, there would always be a nest for him here, in the States, once he’d destroyed everything there, we’d still be forced to open our doors for him, our doors that are lined by his pockets. That’s when I truly discovered what a contingency was. His money’s everywhere, really, it’s bound to this house, and the walls reek of it, the foundation creaks with it. //

In English class once we read this story about a woman in the 19th-century who finds out her husband’s dead. Then when she finds out he’s actually alive, she has a heart attack and dies. My class was apathetic about it, as they are with most English classes. I said, “That sucks.” It did suck. It only occurred to me later that we were trained not to see these things, even if they were right in front of our faces. It’s re-reading a book for the tenth time and noticing the details you missed before, except this time, it’s in real life, and those details are the waggling remnants of a bygone era. I use the term bygone loosely. It’s in such simple terms as man versus woman. I’m those extra two letters, that pathetic tail hanging off the front, a burden. I’m the Miss and Mrs and Ms versus Mr; I’m too specific about my titles, I’m a lot to handle, I’m a lot of work. I’m the wax strips across my legs every weekend, the nickel earrings I’m allergic to, the short cut of my pants. The catch-22 is that society dictates the extra ways in which we’re required to make ourselves respectable for everyday life, and then berates us for the time it takes and the energy we use up. The catch-22 is the men who loiter outside to complain, They take so long in the bathroom, and what do they think we’re doing in the bathroom? Adjusting our clothing, freshening makeup, spritzing on perfume. Because you’ll see our bra strap peeking out or our lipstick smudged and think This is not what you should be. Unlike you, there is no default for us. Every choice we make with our appearance or our demeanor constitutes something. I’m that wish I think many women have: to be that default—inconspicuous and unnoticeable unless I choose not to be. 383

In a worse universe, the woman in the story survives, and has to live like every other modest woman in that time, forced to scramble under her husband’s feet for the rest of her life, invisibly shackled by a man, and overlooked by society, a society which today still encourages young men of a certain temperament and nature to amass fortunes in business and technology and science and bind themselves to a house and wife and by default, children, to construct what is really a failsafe contingency plan to trap generation after generation. We’re surrounded by Batmen, really. In most issues, he’s brooding on a Gotham City rooftop. //

A narcissist is fascinating to watch in action, like an animal going hunting when they’re not even hungry. I’d love to hear David Attenborough narrate our typical family dinners. He awakes in the night— totally wrapped up in his own consciousness, completely exalted by himself, like he does every night. Look! He can’t leave his prey at the dinner table just yet—he has to linger, to grasp at straws—to say anything and everything about himself. Random childhood anecdotes, debates he’s discussed and debated and pondered time and time again, pressing mountains out of thin air. Tonight he’s particularly feral, he’s angry at his own inability—-his inability to rise above his human form, to be something more than the pathetic thing he is. He won’t leave until he gets some action. The cameraman approaches closer. David warns: Careful—any discussion straying too far from him will be disregarded and anger him. Agree with him, and he’ll press harder, try to get a rise out of you. Disagree, and it’s all the easier for him. //

In the limited Identity Crisis series, a conspiracy within the Justice League is unraveled when it turns out certain heroes have secretly voted to allow the memory-wiping of villains when necessary—say, when an enemy has figured out their secret identities. The series was wildly popular and received scathing reviews from critics, one even calling it “the comic that ruined comics.” Four Christmases ago, he stonewalled us by heading down to his office and blasting heavy metal rock music so loud that the house shook. My mom and I hid upstairs in my bedroom all day. I stuffed the crevices of my door with a blanket to try and muffle the noise, but it wouldn’t stop, it was so loud. The stairs to his office start just by the foot of the front door, so that he can see anyone who comes and goes first. The front door was unlocked that day, but his door was ajar, like a taunt. Daring us to try and leave the house. The Christmas after that, I brought it up, and he hadn’t the faintest idea what I was talking about. It took him five minutes to remember. And then he dismissed it casually, “That was your mom’s fault.” I pretended he’d been mind-wiped. //

Robin never succeeds in killing Batman. They’re characters eternally doomed to live out their mangled interpersonal relationship. I think about the first time my dad left for Korea, a lot. Something unfurled in me, like a newborn deer, fur wet and crinkled, legs unsteady—it was tentative, but unrelenting. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was new. It took unsteady breaths. When I came home from the airport, I breathed in the house. The walls still reeked of him, but unlike before, when the stench was everywhere, now it was fading—no tension lined the walls, no floors unsteady like tectonic plates. No more tip-toeing on ice, beating around the bush. It was freedom I tasted. But more than freedom, it was relief—this tangible, palpable relief that flooded my senses and flowered in the recesses of my head. I never asked my mom who she really wept for, but I could guess. //

Robin never succeeds in killing Batman, but I always wondered what he felt like when he came back to life. I wonder what it’s like to be in that space between life and death. Sometimes, more than anything else, I wish my dad was there. Not alive to face me, not tragically dead. Just… disappeared, into thin, thin air. I wish I could be unburdened of something I never asked for. I don’t want him to suffer alone; I don’t want to know him, either. That space between stranger and loved one; between mere discomfort and abuse. In issue #238, Superman discovers the Phantom Zone—a mysterious pocket universe to throw criminals into, a place beyond space-time. I like to think there aren’t just criminals there. Sometimes people who are just fed up go there to blow off some steam 384

and sit in space. Sometimes people are trapped there, lingering between two uncertain worlds, waiting not for a rescuer but for their own bodies to come back. You never know who’s in the Phantom Zone. It makes me eye people in a different way. You see a perfectly happy stranger and think, Is she in the Phantom Zone, and how often does she visit? Does she dread going home at night? Does she tip-toe around her own house? I told my mom, too. Sometimes in the night she quietly agrees. //

Sometimes I forget. Last Christmas Day, the floors were chilly and the house was glazed over in silence. We spent the day at the movies, so just for a brief two hours, we were surrounded by that artificial technicolor warmth, and the passionate air of the moviegoers around us. Back home, we lapsed again into black and white. Then I texted my cousin, who is like a sister to me: Wyd? She texted back: With my mom’s side. And I remembered she wasn’t actually my sister. In one of my favorite comics, the Injustice storyline features the Joker killing Lois Lane, and then Superman subsequently going batshit crazy trying to establish a totalitarian regime to ensure a crime like that never happens again. Batman, of course, leads the insurgency against him. I guess some realities are still worse than others. I thought of that last Christmas with him—that Christmas had color, all right, a mismatched, haphazard collage like someone had ground every shade of pastel onto the other, loud and wrong, clunky. And I looked again to my home, saw nothing wrong with the muted colors and the dark.

385

ESTHER SUN Poetry | Los Gatos High School, Los Gatos, CA

My grandfather dies on my last night in Iowa and though I spent the summer learning to write poems so I can write that these hours feel like a pot of tea burning too long on the stove — it still doesn’t feel like mercy. On the plane I dream we all go out to dinner one last time. Noodles and red bean soup for dessert. My uncles talking about job markets, my brother with earbuds in, my grandfather listening quietly. When we return to his house the new wife steps inside but my grandfather stands in the dark on the sidewalk, July lying in petals at his feet, watching our car pull away and sink into the road’s quiet current. Each time we left I wondered if it would be the last time I saw him. Each time I burned the sight of him into memory: one arm behind his back, the other raised in a wave — memory not as in remember, but memorize. As it turns out, I can’t remember which dinner was the last or if it was dinner at all — I can only see his silhouette, dim windows at his back, the minutes stepping over themselves like piano notes, the night rippling around him.

386

Elegy in which each line ends with ye

My dreams won’t let go of my grandfather 爷 teaching me card games in First Aunt’s night- washed living room while family fills the wild 野 kitchen. He watches me glow. Eight years old, I also peer at him over the unmagnificent 烨 queen of spades, her tired eyes like leaves. 叶 My dreams blur my uncles and aunts into the night as we approach the family minivan. My grandfather hands me the ace of diamonds, tells me to keep its wild 野 close. The card kisses my fingertips. Quiet leaf. In my dreams, we drive away from my grandfather too, gravitate toward the evening’s splendor. 烨

夜也

夜爷叶也

I am never there to watch him dissolve like leaves into the wild night.

387

L I L O U TA U B A N

Design Arts | Design and Architecture Senior High School, Miami, FL

FFS- Filter Feeding Shark Process Cinema 4D, Procreate 2020 388

FFS- Filter Feeding Shark Cinema 4D, Procreate 2020 389

VIC TO R IA T E N NAN T Design Arts | Miami Arts Charter School, Miami, FL

Amplification Mesh screen and fiberglass fabric 2020 390

Sonic wonders Foam tubing, grey fabric and plastic 2020 391

CHEYENNE TERBORG Creative Nonfiction | California Connections Academy, San Juan Capistrano, CA

Motel Gold I am perpetually on a mental road trip. My mind has always wandered further than my feet could take me, and because of this, a general sense of discontentment has woven its way into my consciousness. Only in total chaos have I ever felt truly content. Luckily — or unluckily — for me, life has been filled with plenty of chaos. In its absence, however, I have been pinned to a clothesline and left out to dry with the remnants of trauma that remain. It turns out that survival skills don’t do much good in ordinary life. When you grow up without peace, you learn to make a home out of disaster. The traditional symbols of “home” never meant much to me anyway, as they all felt much too fragile. At twelve, my entire universe collapsed with the turn of a doorknob. Did you know that eviction papers can be served to a minor? I certainly didn’t. The culmination of many familial hardships had suddenly thrust me into a frantic search for somewhere, anywhere, to call my own. The seed of a longing ache quickly burrowed itself into my chest and decided that it wanted to plant its roots within me. That ache began to sprout as I watched my mother toss bags of our belongings into the trash, and it bloomed as soon as I realized that my life would never be the same. My brother and I packed into the car, and my mother settled herself in the driver’s seat. We drove away from our apartment complex, towards the nameless future that lay ahead. I wondered if there would ever be a place for someone like me, whose trust in physical things was diminished by circumstances beyond my control. The answer came to me not long after we began our journey. I soon learned that these heavy feelings of yearning can all be unloaded within the walls of a bleak motel room. Unbeknownst to me, I was about to begin an odyssey into the vast underbelly of society, where the hollow death of the American middle class sat just across from Disneyland. Many others were facing the same quandary as my family, and we gravitated towards each other with ease. Most of my neighbors were fairly ephemeral, passing through from check-ins to check-outs. What I remember the most, however, was how their children behaved. They were filled with a lightness of spirit that illuminated everything around them. Where the rest of the world saw the motel as a weed, they saw it as an opportunity to make a wish. Our lives were so callous, and yet these children remained so delicate. I admired that. Although financial insecurity was my family’s original reason for taking refuge in motels, some years later we would eventually come to rely on them for a different reason. After we managed to secure an apartment of our own, life didn’t smooth out the way we had assumed it would. Each one of us had developed our own methods of tending to the ache that blossomed within us, but not all of those methods could be sustained. My older brother turned to alcohol as his retreat, and the entire household revolved around his temperament. Whenever it became too much for my mom and me to bear, we did what we knew how to do, which was to flee. This became a habitual process, and I became accustomed to the packand-run lifestyle. I didn’t mind that I was being chased out of my house on a nightly basis, because I knew that I had my most trusted confidant, the motel, waiting for me. To me, the motel is the junction of life. No matter what happens within these rooms, when the sun rises and 10 A.M. hits, we all make our way down to the same check-out counter, where we relinquish our claim over these transient spaces for the next weary traveler to finish writing the story that we started. Each motel room has its own unique record, and if you pay attention, you might learn something about a person you’ll never 392

meet. Are there cigarette burns in the tub? Bloodstains on the sheets? Does the Bible in the dresser have all of its pages intact? And what mark will you leave behind? Where nothing is determined, anything is possible. My nights were filled with discussions by the pool, soaking up the neon rays as if they would tan my skin. Strangers always fascinated me, but I was usually too afraid to approach them. At motels, however, they would open up to me almost instinctively. Something about the anonymity of these roadside interactions both terrified and dazzled me. There was a night when we met a group of businessmen traveling through California while sitting in the jacuzzi. They got to talking about their lives, and I remember glancing up towards the sky during a lull in the conversation. I realized that, for the first time, I wasn’t bothered by that nagging feeling in my heart. I knew that I would most likely become nothing more than a road trip story for these people to tell their friends, but even so, I felt like I belonged here. I was home. Motel rooms are where the committee of my soul meets — it’s an illicit rendezvous that only occurs under disastrous circumstances. For the difference between a disaster and a miracle is simply the angle at which you see it. The line between salvation and total destruction is no thicker than a spider’s web. To me, the motel is a beacon of trust, a quietly unwavering friend who beckons me towards the comfortable oblivion of reliable melancholy. It is the crossroads at which I plan to build my life, nestled tightly between what I could be and what I used to be. There are no expectations here. The nuclear family is a lie, and suburbia is a trap. Life is about finding your own place to plant that longing that will inevitably wrestle its way into your heart. Whenever I pass a motel, I feel that ache in my chest unfold, because I know that it recognizes its home. And if you ask me where I’m from, I’ll simply smile and say: “The Motel 6 on Beach Boulevard.”

393

HAMI TRINH

Photography | University of North Carolina School of the Arts, Winston Salem, NC

Sunday I Digital photography 2020 394

Sunday II Digital photography 2020 395

J O N AT H A N T R U O N G Short Story | Orange County School of the Arts, Santa Ana, CA

WHERE ARE YOU GOING? WHERE AM I GOING? In the sophomore year of my undergrad I started taking aerial yoga classes in secret, which made a lot of sense given the trajectory of my life at the time—Point A never leads to Point B. The studio was on the eleventh floor and faced the rear of an apartment complex, so as I was suspended from the ceiling by aerial silks I could glimpse these inverted images of people’s lives: a woman reheating leftovers, a man trying to fix her leaky faucet. If for nothing else, I returned week after week just to see how these boxed vignettes played out. The answer was often violent sex. It was a weeknight when I called him to join me. We were always doing strange things together, Saul and I, like sneaking into tennis clubs or going to tarot readings, so this invitation didn’t seem all that peculiar. I didn’t tell him that I’d been going to the studio, or about the catharsis I felt hanging upside-down, spread-eagled, swinging. I didn’t even tell him about those domestic window displays which I’d collected and filed away in memory. Let me say that Saul was Dutch, and this detail informed almost every interaction I had with him. His Dutch-ness, in fact, was important to me. He was tall, of course. He had no upper lip hair and an immaculate physique, and it was casually rumored among our classmates that his father starred in a terrible 1970s slasher film, which followed a serial killer lurking around the Amsterdam canals. His being born in Rotterdam only fueled the rustic image I had projected onto him, and whenever he alluded to his upbringing I imagined aerial views of large oceangoing steamships, cargoes of crude oil and petroleum, the angles and pistons and vectors of a sort of postmodern carnage. He spoke about none of these things. Saul was unbearably centrist—unlawfully so, if I may suggest such a paradox—and radiated a pride that was particularly un-American. It was no wonder, then, that he was reluctant to shed his ego at the command of a white woman who wore pink polyester leggings and who spoke with the rasp of a chain-smoker. That was the thing about Saul: he was always conspicuous in his disapproval. But then the class was ending, and the instructor cranked the volume up on Black Sabbath’s Electric Funeral, and she was telling the whole class to start screaming. Saul looked at me and mouthed What the fuck? but I shrugged, joining the chorus. It occurred to me that there were few moments weirder than this—wailing at the top of my lungs in a class full of middle-aged white women—but this pseudo-guru had a way of penetrating straight to the heart space. Either that or the sound of her screaming Let that out! Let that out! over heavy metal was making me lose my mind. Then we were all crying, even Saul, lying in corpse pose in those hammocks. It felt good to be suddenly airborne in this silk cocoon, and I have a surviving sense of excitement from that impossible feeling of weightlessness. Saul was too stubborn to try and find his inner light, which was, I am told, a very Dutch attitude—straightforwardness is encoded into the language. This nonetheless bothered me, and I thought about it as we descended the dingy elevator. Outside it was cold. It was wonderful. It was fall, the city wrung out and flaccid. Technicolor lights were flashing everywhere. Everything had a heavy odor like nickels and vodka soda and Penhaligon’s cologne. The night balanced on an empty windblown can of Coke Zero. Do you feel enlightened now? he asked me. Perhaps. Self-work is a deeply personal thing, you know, I replied. 396

I think you’re starting to lose your mind, he said. After that, we walked in silence for a block or so. So is this like a thing? That you’re doing? he asked. I’m being happy. Maybe you should try getting shit-faced instead. Or download some dating apps? Well, I love Grindr as much as anyone else, Saul, but love is dead. A pause: I’ll never live for the sake of someone else. Didn’t Ayn Rand say something about that? About Grindr? Doubtful. He smiled: About self-interest. Ayn Rand is a war criminal. Across the street, the final hours of sunlight were wasted upon a scaffolded building’s face—all the windows boarded up, the curtains drawn. Beneath them: a woman haggling for a faux leather bag in Spanish (¡Tómalo o déjalo!), the vendor laughing (Are you crazy?). All of these little scenes happened around us, and yet we couldn’t look into any of them, even if we tried. ***

The problem, Saul and I’s problem, began the night we got bored with ourselves. I was telling him a story from my hometown: my friends and I were not yet 17, and June’s electric moon was blowing O’s with us. Well, with them—I, on the other hand, could barely flick a disposable Bic lighter and was still traumatized from junior high propaganda, where we watched a teenager in a PSA get air-lifted to a Los Angeles hospital after taking—and I quote—a fat bong rip. What I mean is that I coughed up a few mouthfuls of smoke. Anyways, this was all beside the point, the point being that, that night, I realized how beautiful back home was. We were bent over the pier’s guard rail. As I told Saul about the way the waves just sort of fizzled at night, I once again felt the heavy life of the ocean inside me. It could’ve swallowed me whole; I might’ve even allowed it to. He said something about learning to swim, how it is odd that some people in the States can go their whole childhood without ever learning to stay afloat. Then he began to work backwards. He was excavating through his memory, telling me all of the ways in which he arrived here: about patroons and big girthy plots of land, about the splitting of bread and church, about drinking beer by the river with his friends, throwing the bottles at ducks, violently. I didn’t know why he was telling me any of this, or how any of it related to him, right then, standing before me. During this brief moment of intimacy, I began to look at him—not just his body, but the “him” beyond the skin and breath and formalities. I was trying to be real, to communicate something beyond speech, like those electromagnetic signals between devices (Hello? Can you hear me?). In those moments I had a nagging feeling in my appendix—was this enlightenment? Well, no. Sometimes I felt like I was just an animal posing as a human, one of those biomimicry octopuses on PBS that could camouflage as a sea snake. It wasn’t just me though. We often played a game where we’d switch identities. I don’t know: something about being young and impressionable in the city. The barista at some coffee shop downtown would ask for my name, and I’d grin

and say: Saul. He wasn’t as good at the game, which I attributed to my unequaled wit, but probably had more to do with his reluctance to assume my gayness. Saul, Saul, Saul. It filled my ribcage and came out as song. ***

A portrait: me, Missy, and Saul, three NYU students, taking NJ transit for a garage rock concert in Newark. I didn’t know the proper attire, so I was dressed ambiguously: a proto-Punk, mod, 60s getup. I was always trying to be ambiguous. For example, when Missy texted me asking why I wasn’t at Penn Station yet, I sent her four of the cat emojis: heart eyes, kissing face, crying, shocked. We were alone in a four-seater, all of us grown enough so that our knees touched, when Missy pulled out a baggie of cocaine. What I wanted was for it to get all moody like a still-life from a Debussy soundtrack, but then each of us took turns inhaling sharply, and we all sat back, sucking the weird chemical taste from our enamels. I asked who was playing tonight. The Black Keys was the answer. In the bathroom, I stared at myself through the calcium stains on the mirror. From outside I could hear the general hum of the train, the mechanics of things moving, and I thought of the body underneath my body as an amalgam of gears and pistons. I imagined the animal inside me dead, replaced with a machine-like whirring. When I got back Saul was giving an impromptu lecture on probability, something about how: Given enough time, a monkey randomly striking keys on a typewriter could end up writing Hamlet. Missy threw her head back, perhaps in laughter. You must be thinking of the Infinite Monkey Theorem, I replied, though I couldn’t tell who “I” was at all: the I speaking or the I sitting across from me. Saul was probably bothered that I knew more than he did in almost all avenues of life. Could he paraphrase Kierkegaard in casual conversation? Probably not. We arrived in Newark with our heads down. The moon must have been late, because the night was completely blank. A mile away someone jangled their keys. We were walking for hours. Walking here, walking there. Walking was only half the battle. For no reason in particular I thought: it’s a dog eat dog world. Life can only be understood backwards, Saul said, but it must be lived forwards. I went, What does that mean? He kept walking. I persisted: What does that mean? And maybe this wasn’t even Saul I was talking to. It was me, or Saul playing me, or me playing Saul playing me, and somewhere between Greenwich and Newark he had started playing our game without me. I realized as we walked that the whole city was a terrible disappointment. It was lonely, disarranged, dispirited. Everything moved dangerously here. There were hardly any streetlamps, and in that blackness everything lost its perimeters. At the concert, the crowd became church for the hot and bothered. We were trying to push our way to the front, but then people started to dance in a way that was like fighting, and everything became bones and teeth and knees, hard edges jostled together. Missy mouthed something to me I didn’t understand. Everyone recorded on their iPhones. At first the music sounded terrible, and then it sounded wonderful. The bassist’s liquid sixteenth notes had a way of reaching us, breaking through synaptic time no matter how far gone we thought we might be. On another day, c'mon c'mon With these ropes I tied, can we do no wrong? Now we grieve, cause now is gone Things were good when we were young 1 I realized then that my friends had stopped listening to the music. What I mean is that Saul and Missy were kissing. His hand brushing the hem of her lowcut jeans; her mouth touching whatever part of his face was closest. And the thing was I liked it. How it made me think of when the yoga instructor says bring your hands to the heart center, and the two hemispheres of the body were suddenly bridged. 1

“C’mon, C’mon” by The Von Bondies

Around me, as the young amateurs violated their instruments to unspeakable volumes, I once again felt myself losing my bearings. I was throwing myself out and looking in, racing the NJ Transit at 60mph through space. In this scene, I imagined myself as Saul once more. I felt the stiffness of Missy’s denim at my fingertips; I felt the prick of Missy’s stabbing tongue in my cheek; I felt my hands, uncontrollable, pawing at the whiteness of her exposed back; id driven; heartbeat versus heartbeat. In bed back at the dorms, I turned off the lights and went through the motions all over again. Saul, Saul, Saul, I whispered reassuringly, and then got on all fours. I moved swiftly. Lay prone over my duvet, tore off the sheets in my undressing. I was a man, an animal, a deep gnawing. I was radical, I was explosive, I was Rotterdam’s aerial bombardment and its calcified remains. What I feared: the NJ Transit was a time machine, and at some point between Point A and Point B all of our timelines had been unraveled. I didn’t even know if Greenwich was Point B, or which direction I was moving towards. At that moment I chose downward, and shuddered onto my pillow. That night, I dreamt of Missy and I in bed. A dream where the body underneath my body slipped out of itself, and the night opened its satin legs. In one version of things, I lifted the white hem of Missy’s shirt, only to reveal that she had the torso of a man. In another, Missy and I crawled dog-like on our limbs and I couldn’t tell which of the four bodies was mine. ***

I woke up the next morning and immediately walked down to the dining hall. By the time I’d finished watching Anderson Cooper on my phone, I realized that the only thing I’d heard was the shrill voice of a girl adjacent to me. I tweeted: Anderson Cooper is hot, in a Mr. Clean sort of way. Every fifteen minutes, I returned to the microwave to reheat my coffee, and I sipped on it as I walked up 14th Street. It didn’t make sense to skip my Intro to Political Theology lecture to go to an aerial yoga class, but I told myself that this was what my inner self wanted. After all, the cold and dark months were creeping up behind us. I passed a man in drag on the way there, plastic wig off to reveal unspectacular cropped hair, and sheer pantyhose covering his lower half. He smiled with his teeth. I think I smiled too, but then he turned the corner and we settled back into our lives. No silks today, the instructor said at the studio. I’d never come this early, and so I didn’t know how hideously empty it would look without them. I rolled out my rubber yoga mat. We did seven sun salutations. Every time we got to downward dog she said something about checking in with our breath. Listening to the body and then letting go of the body. She didn’t play any Black Sabbath, or any rock music for that matter, just an odd medley of shamanic incantations and studio recordings of crystal bowls. All I knew how to do was stand there, dazed. Inhale the light, exhale the darkness. I flew home the next weekend. ***

Mom was surprised to see that I didn’t have any luggage save a single carry-on tote. I said: Minimalism, Marie-Kondo-style. She said All that hippie shit is really making you a narcissist, and maybe it was something about being airborne or liminal spaces that made me realize then, right then, I was beginning my adult life. It’d only been a few weeks since I’d been to the beach, but it felt like years. Maybe NJ Transit had been a time machine after all. So much of it had been eroded that there was this gaping drop-off where the sand should be, and the white foam came and dragged all that remained. The light, too, was retreating; everything was Novembering. I looked at my skin. I was in the final weeks of my July tan, developed from weeks of sitting beside the AC unit in my backyard where the sun was strongest, and drifting aimlessly in weak currents. Now, the only thing near the lip of the tide was a dead seabird that the other birds had started to eat. Mom, I said, I think I’m going to dye my hair blue. Or shave it. Okay, she responded. Clearly the monkey who authored this life story was no Shakespeare, but regardless I continued: What I mean is that I’m a twink, mom. I’m a total fucking twink. She laughed; So are we thinking Pad Thai for dinner or? 397

Eight hours it’d taken to get here, and for what? I still couldn’t find my inner light like they told me to in those five-minute mindfulness meditations, and there was no sun in my solar plexus. It came to me that somewhere during my brief residence here, time had washed cruelly over me, and there was nothing democratic about it. It had washed over me and now all I could do was watch myself tell my mother my sexual preferences seven years too late, after she'd already met one of my Grindr matches in the grocery store and taken me to see the musical rendition of Jerry Springer: The Opera. I couldn’t help myself; I texted Saul— ME: tell me something about ur day. ME: preferably good. SAUL: I’m in the library. POV: I turn on my ringer and see how long it takes someone to tell me to shut up. ME: you’re giving me ENFP-type energy right now SAUL: So how’s home? ME: good. He texted me a picture of his face. For the first time, I thought that maybe he was envious of my proximity to home. The picture was lit in a way as to suggest something behind his face, but what, I didn’t know. He looked inconceivably all-American, like those pictures you find in frayed leather wallets where the blonde boys hold fish or dead animals, grinning ear-to-ear. ME: hey do u think that the fat cats are getting fatter? what are they feeding us on our meal plans? SAUL: They’re distracting us with Breakfast-for-Dinner nights. But I think it’s a soy meat substitute. Later, I would send him a voice memo. Into the receiver I just repeated his name over and over again. My voice, which drew a breath and then kept it, carried itself across state borders. My voice, left as it was, a network of cords tangled in transmission. Coded and then decoded, digitized. I wondered if Saul lived in one of those buildings below sea level, where a dike separated him from an entire wall of ocean. Or maybe he lived in one of those Brutalist constructions above the canals, and at night you could see straight into his window when his place was lit up. Could he hear the water? Could he hear passersby throughout the day? Somehow I still knew nothing about him. I’d been around long enough to know that things never die the right way anymore, so I kissed goodbye to the sea bird's body and its cannibalistic friends. I thought about it the whole drive home. At a stoplight, a twenty-something-year-old woman in a tennis skirt paused for a moment in the center of the crosswalk, just briefly, and I thought about those two-dimensional window scenes that I could see from the studio. Of course, the moment never lasts. The woman blinked, then continued to the other side of the street. The leaky faucet was fixed by a man, and afterward she thanked him by getting on her knees. For the first time in my life I thought about letting it all go, still unsure of what “it” was, but even after my one-month unlimited-classpack of aerial yoga I was no more wise and no more certain, and so instead I hoped for more red lights, just a few more red lights, and held onto myself tightly.

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K AT H L E E N T U R K Creative Nonfiction | Germantown Friends School, Philadelphia, PA

Remembering a Family I. We are a family buried. On a fridge somewhere or maybe a box underneath another box in the basement, there is a picture of my first birthday. Well, there was. Chances are that by now it has perished in my mother’s massacre of all pictures featuring my father. In the water and time-stained image, my parents are giving me a teddy bear I do not remember ever having and I cling to its furry neck. Chubby arms embracing the teddy tightly, my eyes well with a joy only a child so young could be capable of experiencing. I was taught that knowledge came with age, but I understood something then that has since been confused and muddled like the rainwater that sits in the grooves of the pavement right outside our front door. From the moment I let go of that teddy bear, I was destined to waste the rest of my life chasing every thread that would lead me back to its arms. II. A family in a fairytale. Mr. Murphy1 was the bogeyman. He lived in the house behind ours, separated by a fence of peeling red paint and a cement backyard. A three-story row home among two-stories, he and his house towered over my nightmares. All the shadows that sucked blood and nibbled at my toenails while I slept belonged to him. When the nightly ordeal of sleep had ended, the shadows fled to his house, lurking in the curtained rooms until the sun set. And if the sun took too long, they swallowed it in three large gulps. Mr. Murphy whispered to the floorboards and drew out the nails to trip me. He turned snow to slush and dog pee. He was the silence at my dinner table. He was the bitter echo of my parents’ voices fighting late into the night. He fed the seven-year-old pothole in the middle of our street like a pet. One day the pothole would expand, devour, digest us in its gravel stomach. Those were just theories, though. In real life, Mr. Murphy settled for throwing bricks and shovels through our neighbor’s window. He did this once on my seventh birthday. My friends and I were on our pitiful patch of cement when we heard the woosh and the crash. The police came, but he was not arrested until many years later. For what, I do not know and I would prefer not to. When my favorite purple striped bathing suit blew from our rackety clothesline to his place, I never went to get it. My mother did not want him knowing a little girl lived behind him, so we left the bathing suit lying abandoned on the pavement. I moped a while, then returned to imagining all the damage Mr. Murphy had created with the twitch of his ratty, yellow eyes. My purple bathing suit would suffer years in servitude as his new pet rag. My missing hair tie was surely in his possession. The pink erasable pen, my Halloween socks, the Star Wars DVD set. If Mr. Murphy had stolen all that, he must have stolen the love between my parents as well. III. A family shattered. Broken: My two front teeth when my brother whacked my face with a baseball bat. It was an accident.The air conditioner. The car window. Four times. My six-year-old heart when the boy next door did not love me back. The heater. The fridge. My father’s heart when my mother said she I do not remember his real name. He was an Irish Catholic like us and had a large potbelly and couldn’t seem to grow a beard no matter how hard he tried. From now on, I will know him as Mr. Murphy. 1

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should have married someone else. The air conditioner. Again. The wall that my father punched. The wall that my brother kicks his soccer ball at. The ornaments our cats knock off the Christmas tree as we sleep. The old corner lady’s heart when the ambulance sped her away and never returned her. The inexplicable hole in our basement wall covered in graffiti that has been there longer than we have. The box television that exploded, sparking and restless like my father; the Peanuts died while the adults said, “wah waah wah wah.” My mother’s heart when my smile morphs into my father’s grin. IV. A family with veins like subway tracks. My father framed a map of the subway front and center in our living room. My mother hid it in the hallway closet and removed the nail from the wall. My father hammered it back again. The hole from the nail expanding each time. My mother hid. My father ignored. So it went. Personally, I was fond of the picture. The subway tracks were formed from paint tubes, each its own pleasing shade. I liked to imagine that instead of grime and the smell of weed, each line tinted the world, bringing you to an isolated patch of earth born entirely of neons and pastels. Philadelphia to my parents was no parking at night. To my father, it was the land of train cars. Philadelphia was unemployment. The job field a river dried, trampled flat by youth so that the water could not flow in either direction. It was Reading Terminal on Saturdays and bars full of soccer fans. To my mother, it was SEPTA’s delays. It was endless jobs, each with an increased salary. Philadelphia was salt that soaked the food and carved potholes in the road. To my maternal grandparents, Philly was a daughter born out of wedlock, two children raised as heathens, without God, without a white picket fence. To Mima, it was a tepid city. She always said that if her children or even her grandchildren moved back to Chicago, she would be on the first flight back to her home. Philly to me was the taste of salt. It ate at my mother’s tongue, but it brought mine to life. It was the art museum every weekend and platforms of rushing people and rushing trains. Philly was graffiti, a language I first discovered when I was five and shivering at the bus stop. It was the first day of kindergarten and I was sure my teachers would know how to read Graffiti. That was back when I wanted to learn everything. Philly was the desire to see and to be submerged. To disappear, seams of my body bleeding into streetlights, and come alive by doing so. V. A family that sings: “If they follow you, don't look back like Dylan in the movies.”2 The papers were signed, but the floorboards refused to part with ease. My parents yanked them, splinters flying in their eyes. Our eyes. At night the floorboards cried to me and I cried with them as we stared down the chasm between then and now. Boxes piled high in the doorway. Boxes mainly of my father’s crime novels and CDs. Where would they live? In those CDs are memories of dancing to “Judy and the Dream of Horses”3 back when I thought Judy really was dreaming of horses. From the song “Like Dylan in the Movies” on the album “If You’re Feeling Sinister” by Belle and Sebastian. 2

Twirling. “If you're ever feeling blue then write another song about your dream of horses.” My father’s tickles. “Write a song about your dream of horses, call it Judy And The Dream Of Horses.” My mother’s singing voice, naturally melancholy. “Call it Judy And The Dream Of Horses.” Splinters and socks sliding on old wooden floors. “ Your dream of horses.” Head back. Hair flying. Loving the Beatles because my father loved the Beatles. Worrying about Dylan or the boy like Dylan from “Like Dylan in the Movies”. Who was following him home? Was it Mr. Murphy? I thought all these memories would be homeless when my father left, but they cling. They follow from home to home. When I listen to music now, to the Cranberries and R.E.M., deja vu is inevitable. I am five again. Seven again. Eleven. Thirteen. Spinning to the same songs. Alone or together, my father, mother, brother and I are programmed by fate to feel the same rhythms. VI. A family stuffed in sidewalk cracks like green glass. The beer bottle kind. Remaining: Lemon cookies kneaded by four sets of hands. My father teaching me to hide beneath tables and read books when I did not want to talk to people. My parents bickering in laughter about who gets to read the newest Harry Potter book first. Baseball games with cherry water ice dripping down our chins. Monopoly games. My mother never believing she let her life turn out wrong. Believing that we, with our fractured forms, are proof that she did okay.

3 Also on the album “If You’re Feeling Sinister” by Belle and Sebastian.

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A LY S S A U N D E R W O O D Visual Arts | Classen School for Advanced Studies High School at Northeast, Oklahoma City, OK

Wallow Oil on canvas 2020 402

Mourn Oil on canvas 2020 403

PAO LO VAC A L A Design Arts | Maine South High School, Park Ridge, IL

Lakeside Keys Music Festival Illustrator, Photoshop, InDesign 2019 404

Chicago Architecture Book Cover Photoshop, InDesign 2018 405

C I E LO VA L E N Z U E L A- L A R A Spoken Word | California School of the Arts San Gabriel Valley, Duarte, CA

I Miss Going to God's House Sunday mornings With grandma and grandpa and Daisy. I can smell his cologne. I can hear her lipstick. I can taste her perfume. I see a woman in front of me. She looks so pretty in blue. I smile while I stand. We all stand for sacrament. I see the missionaries in their white button up shirts And black ties walking up the aisle towards the pews To make us drink the blood and eat the body of Christ. Angelic voices sing holy hymns that will forever Echo in the temple of my mind. Maybe that’s why I wanted to be a singer. I wonder if god is hurt that I don’t Visit him anymore. I wonder if He ever thinks of me. Maybe while I’m drinking water from a glass, Or brushing my curly hair I inherited from My great grandma. Nothing during those two hours felt extreme. Everything was peaceful. My heart was content. Thinking maybe after sacramental and talking to las hermanas, We’d go to aye papa que rico Or maybe shakey’s Or maybe sizzler. Then we’d buy some pan dulce to eat with coffee we’re not supposed to drink. Let’s just say I wasn’t thinking about God or Jesus when I needed to. I don’t really think of church too much either. It’s become a language that’s getting harder and harder to speak in. Church wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t good. But just was. I remember wearing dresses to church. I didn’t like them. But secretly, I did. I liked to be like Daisy and mom. Carry a brown purse with a clip on it With a book of mormon, A bible, A green holy hymns book. A lipstick. A pen. Some paper. Chicle! Church was fun. Church was identity. But now church feels too far. I don’t really miss it. That’s a lie. I miss it now. But, I won’t in a bit. Then I'll regret not praying every time before I sleep or eat.

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The singing voices I hear right now in my parents Room reminds me of the angels in that giant Painting Dad used to have on the stairs. It was of Jesus and some angels. It was a big blue one with a golden frame With fluffy white clouds And Jesus had bare feet on the stairs. The angels had trumpets. I liked the colors. I didn’t like how I felt staring at it. I felt like Jesus was watching me Walk away from his Dad’s house.

A Boy No More I always tell myself, As if I had control over it, I should have a daughter. It would just be easier. I am not a mother, but I admit To myself and my country that I am afraid to have a son. If I did, How would I tell him that people see his name as a t h r e a t? How would I tell him that his golden skin Has a wanted signs posted on every Street pole and white picket fence. How would I tell him not to be afraid of himself ? How would I tell him that our country has an Addiction to erasing brown stories.

Tell me, Do white mothers have to worry About their sons leaving their homes In a hoodie? I am not a boy, Yet my family still tells me to keep my hands and face visible when we walk into a Walmart. America doesn’t expect white mothers to disappoint their sons by telling them they were born a crime. They only expect that from Me.

It would take more than Spanish and tamales to keep him alive. He would have to be bilingual; He would have to be Whitewashed. I am whitewashed; White picket fences are the American Dream; my American Dream is my son. Maybe I’ll spare him and marry a white man That way his eclipsed face could add a few more days to his life. Why do white people assume brown babies are born in Orange jumpsuits? jump They to conclusions, say we take their jobs And suffocate the border. The destruction of my country came from A history of colonization. He is my legacy; Like champurradas and conchas, he is the historia (story) Crumbling in my hands. White people want a story? Do they want a story of oppression, Or bias: Or dirty looks; Or microaggressions; Or discrimination; Or racism; Or fear; Or death. It seems that death only comes For the darker shades of skin.

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G R ACE WA N G Play or Script | Phillips Academy, Andover, MA

The Lunchroom INT. RESTROOM. DAY Straight on: the five stalls of a spacious public restroom. The stall doors are blue, and the walls are whitewashed. The wall we cannot see is lined with mirrors and sinks, and to the right is the door and paper towel dispenser. The restroom appears to be empty. IN STALL -A girl is sitting, crossed-legged, on the closed toilet seat. This is JAMIE, a socially anxious seventh-grader. She is eating quietly from a LUNCHABLE, which is perched upon her lap. A plastic WATER BOTTLE sits on the toilet paper dispenser. RESTROOM -Straight on the stalls. Jamie isn’t visible from the outside. JAMIE’S STALL -We hear the restroom door OPEN. Jamie stops chewing immediately when she registers the sound. RESTROOM -A GIRL enters the restroom and locks themselves in the rightmost stall. JAMIE’S STALL -Jamie is quiet and still as the girl does her business, flushes the toilet and washes her hands at the sink. RESTROOM -The girl leaves the restroom, the door closing behind her. JAMIE’S STALL -Hold for a beat on Jamie. She is hard to read. The bell RINGS. Jamie quickly but quietly gathers up her Lunchable waste and water bottle. She unlocks the stall door. RESTROOM -Jamie leaves the stall and approaches the sinks. She dumps her Lunchable and water into the trash and faces the mirror, facing directly at us. Cut to her reflection in the mirror itself. Jamie is staring at herself intensely. There’s the briefest flicker of confidence in her eyes. The confidence she wants to possess but is unable to grasp in its entirety. We can hear students bustling loudly to their classes in the hallway outside. Jamie turns away from the mirror and to the door. And, composing herself, she leaves the restroom. The door swings shut behind her. INT. RESTROOM. DAY It’s the next day. Straight on the stalls, which appear to be empty again. JAMIE’S STALL -Jamie is sitting cross-legged in her restroom stall, same as before. She is eating another Lunchable. RESTROOM -Straight on all five of the stalls in a row. Jamie is invisible to the outside. The door OPENS. JAMIE’S STALL -Jamie stops eating and listens carefully.

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We hear the person enter the stall to the right of Jamie’s. We hear the stall being locked, and the toilet seat coming down... RESTROOM -Straight on the stalls. We can see someone’s legs through the gap between the stall door and the floor. They get pulled up, out of view. Invisible, just like Jamie’s. It now appears like all stalls are empty again. JAMIE’S STALL -Jamie stares at her untouched Lunchable, waiting for the person beside her to leave. They don’t. RESTROOM -The two occupants are invisible from the outside. JAMIE’S STALL -Jamie remains still. -- LATER -RESTROOM -The bell RINGS. JAMIE’S STALL -The stall to the left of Jamie’s unlocks and the occupant leaves their stall. A beat later, the restroom door closes. Close on: Jamie, who is quietly pensive. After a beat, she gathers her Lunchable to leave. INT. RESTROOM. DAY It’s the next day. Straight on the stalls. They appear to be unoccupied. The door OPENS. It’s a girl. The same girl as before. This is SHAYLA. Tall and pretty, this is someone who borders on the ranks of popularity, quite different from the friendless Jamie. She enters the stall to the right of Jamie’s again. The toilet seat goes down and Shayla’s legs disappear. We hear a lunchbox being UNZIPPED. JAMIE’S STALL -Jamie is sitting cross-legged on the closed toilet seat, with her Lunchable in her lap. She’s quiet as she listens to Shayla UNPACK her lunchbox... In Jamie’s hand is a half-bitten CRACKER-CHEESE SANDWICH, which she stopped eating when Shayla entered. She considers it. She raises the sandwich to her mouth, but then stops. Jamie removes the crackers carefully from the sandwich and places them in the Lunchable tray. She then eats the ham and cheese noiselessly. We can still hear sounds from Shayla’s stall — eating, clinking of foodware... There are only crackers left in Jamie’s Lunchable tray now. Jamie reaches for her water bottle, which is sitting on the toilet paper dispenser. At her touch, it FALLS to the ground -SHAYLA’S STALL --- with a soft — but very audible — “plop”. Shayla’s frozen. Her THERMOS is perched on top of her LUNCHBOX, which is in her lap. Her FORK has stopped en route to her open mouth. Her eyes are cast down upon the restroom floor, at the plastic water bottle that has rolled just into her stall... JAMIE’S STALL -Jamie is also frozen. Her countenance remains passive, though internally she’s torn between panic and embarrassment. A long, awkward beat. Are you eating?

SHAYLA (O.S)

Another long beat. No reply from Jamie.

Awkward silence. Okay...

SHAYLA (O.S)

Beat. We hear the eating sounds from Shayla’s stall recommence hesitantly. More awkward silence... then... JAMIE I know who you are.

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Beat. Really?

RESTROOM --

You’re Shayla.

SHAYLA (O.S) JAMIE

We can hear Jamie and Shayla’s conversation, though we can’t see either of them. Beat. JAMIE (O.S, CONT’D) I recognize your voice. SHAYLA (O.S) Wow. Uh. I’m honored.

It’s difficult to read if this remark was meant to be sarcastic. Beat.

SHAYLA (O.S, CONT’D) (feeling she should add) Sorry I don’t know who you are. It’s okay.

JAMIE (O.S)

We hear Shayla eating a bit more... JAMIE’S STALL --

Close on Jamie, pensive. Then, the sounds of a thermos lid being screwed on a body, a lunchbox being ZIPPED... silence. Then --

Long beat.

Even longer beat.

Beat.

SHAYLA (O.S) Do me a favor. Don’t tell anyone I was in here.

Okay.

Thanks.

JAMIE

SHAYLA (O.S)

Then -- the bell RINGS. Immediately, we hear Shayla’s feet hitting the ground, the unlocking of her stall, and she’s out of the restroom, the door closing behind her. Hold on Jamie. INT. RESTROOM. DAY It’s the next day. Straight on of the stalls. The two occupied stalls appear vacant. The door OPENS. A GIRL enters. She goes to the leftmost stall and locks herself inside. We hear her whistling to herself as she does her business and flushes the toilet. She continues whistling and singing as she exits her stall, washes her hands at the sink, and fixes her hair. She then leaves, the door closing behind her. JAMIE’S STALL -Jamie’s sitting on the toilet seat, eating a Lunchable noiselessly — she has left the crackers in the tray untouched. Silence. Then --

Jamie is surprised. Beat.

Hey.

(venturing) Hello.

SHAYLA (O.S)

JAMIE

Shayla can sense Jamie’s hesitancy. Beat.

Beat.

SHAYLA (O.S) You know, you don’t have to eat so quietly. I’m the only one here.

I know. 410

JAMIE

Beat. Jamie doesn’t continue eating.

RESTROOM --

SHAYLA (O.S) So. What’s going on with you?

Straight on the stalls. Silence. Awkwarddd...

Beat.

JAMIE (O.S) You don’t have to make conversation if you don’t want to.

Yeah. Okay.

SHAYLA (O.S)

Long beat. We hear some eating noises, but it’s generally just loads of awkward silence. Cool. No talking.

Beat. More awkward silence.

JAMIE’S STALL --

SHAYLA (O.S)

(beat) This is awesome.

SHAYLA (O.S) You sure about this no talking thing? I mean, it’s getting kinda boring in here.

Beat. JAMIE If you want me to talk, I can talk with you. SHAYLA (O.S) I thought you said you didn’t want to talk. JAMIE I didn’t say I didn’t want to talk.

Beat.

SHAYLA (O.S) Okay. So I guessed it. But I think it’s true. JAMIE I thought that you would feel weird talking to me.

RESTROOM --

SHAYLA (O.S) I don’t feel weird talking to you.

Awkward silence. SHAYLA (O.S, CONT’D) Maybe this was a bad idea. You were right. Let’s just pretend we’re not here. I never said that.

JAMIE’S STALL --

Yeah, okay.

JAMIE (O.S)

SHAYLA (O.S)

A long beat. Jamie is hard to read. SHAYLA’S STALL -Shayla is sitting cross-legged on her closed toilet seat, her lunchbox in her lap, with her open thermos perched on top of it. There’s a fork in her hand.

Long beat.

Beat.

Why are you here?

JAMIE (O.S)

SHAYLA Probably the same reason why you’re here. JAMIE (O.S) You don’t have to eat here. You have friends.

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Beat. Yeah, okay. Stop saying that.

RESTROOM --

SHAYLA JAMIE (O.S)

Straight on the stalls. Beat. SHAYLA (O.S) You know, not all friends are nice friends... Some are assholes.

Beat.

JAMIE (O.S) They aren’t friends then.

SHAYLA (O.S) Well what would you know?

Long beat. The silence is deafening.

Sorry.

Longer beat.

SHAYLA (O.S)

(beat) I guess I just feel cowardly because.. I feel like I’m running away from my problems, you know? JAMIE (O.S) I think that you think I’m a coward because I’m in here too.

The longest beat.

SHAYLA (O.S) I didn’t mean to call you a coward.

SHAYLA’S STALL -Close on Shayla, vulnerable.

The bell RINGS. No one moves.

Yeah, okay.

JAMIE (O.S)

Then, Shayla closes her thermos and zips her lunchbox. Then she leaves the stall. Hold on the empty stall. As Shayla opens the restroom door, we hear the bustle and chatter in the hallway. Then it’s muffled as the door closes. Hold on stall. INT. RESTROOM. DAY It’s the next day. Straight on: a stall door closes and legs disappear. Shayla’s legs. The stalls appear empty. We hear a lunchbox being UNZIPPED. Then silence. Hold for a long beat.

JAMIE’S STALL --

SHAYLA (O.S) Wow. This is really getting awkward.

Jamie is quiet, stopping herself from taking a bite of her food. She listens as Shayla mutters “awkward” under her breath a couple times to a sing-songy tune. She then is silent. Long beat.

Long beat.

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SHAYLA (O.S, CONT’D) I know this is weird, alright? I mean, we’re literally in a bathroom. But, you’re like — right there, you know? Like you’re literally sitting right next to me.

Long beat.

Beat.

SHAYLA (O.S, CONT’D) Okay, no talking, that’s fine. SHAYLA (O.S, CONT’D) But like, I’m sorry, okay? I just hate feeling alone. And I’m not alone, so I feel like I don’t need to feel that way. And I’m not trying to be selfish or anything. I just think we could make this better for both of us.

RESTROOM --

Beat.

Aren’t you alone?

JAMIE (O.S)

SHAYLA (O.S) No, I’m not. You’re in here.

Do I count?

JAMIE (O.S)

SHAYLA (O.S) Why wouldn’t you count?

JAMIE (O.S) You can’t see me. You don’t even know what I look like.

Beat.

SHAYLA (O.S) That doesn’t mean you don’t count. JAMIE (O.S) You don’t even know my name. Fair point.

SHAYLA (O.S)

(beat) What is your name.

Beat.

Jamie.

JAMIE (O.S)

SHAYLA (O.S) We’re not alone, Jamie. The door OPENS.

Hold on Jamie.

RESTROOM -A pair of giggling girls enter the restroom. Athletic, and wearing trendy clothes, these are clearly two girls at the height of popularity. They enter loudly and laughing, and move to the mirror, looking at their reflections.

JAMIE’S STALL --

GIRL #1 Omigosh, what’s the matter with her?

Close on Jamie, listening to the girls’ conversation. GIRL #2 (O.S) I know right? She’s so weird. GIRL #1 (O.S) Yeah, thank god we phased her out. Beat.

GIRL #2 (O.S) Have you seen Shayla lately? GIRL #1 (O.S) Dunno. She’s weird too. Yeah --

GIRL #2 (O.S)

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GIRL #1 (O.S) Honestly, like, Shayla’s not even that cool. She thinks she’s so awesome and all that but she’s actually just like, not worth it. GIRL #2 (O.S) Who do you think she sits with now? GIRL #1 (O.S) I dunno. Who cares though. Yeah. Omigosh, look --

GIRL #2 (O.S) GIRL #1 (O.S)

Both girls exclaim “Ewwww!” over something we can’t see. There’s some whispering, lots of laughter, and the girls leave noisily, the restroom door slamming shut behind them. Silence. The bell RINGS. Jamie waits. Jamie’s unsure if she should say anything... Shayla doesn’t move from her stall. Jamie is hesitant, then she leaves her stall. RESTROOM -She walks to the mirrors, straight ahead. Stops, and glances back at Shayla’s stall. It appears to be empty. Beat. Then Jamie leaves the restroom. The door closes behind her. Hold. SHAYLA’S STALL -Shayla’s torn down, all hope gone... She curls up on the closed toilet seat, into a ball, burying her head in her knees... Not intending to leave. INT. RESTROOM. DAY It’s the next day. Straight on the row of appearing to be empty stalls. Hold. The door OPENS. It’s... Jamie. She’s holding her packaged, uneaten Lunchable in one hand and plastic water bottle in the other. She approaches the row of stalls — one particular stall... then Jamie stops. Directly in front of the closed stall. Hold. SHAYLA’S STALL -Shayla’s POV -- We don’t see Shayla, but she’s there. There’s a pair of sneakers poking underneath her stall door... they’re JAMIE’S SHOES...they don’t move... RESTROOM -Straight on Jamie. She’s determined. SHAYLA’S STALL -Back to the shoes still underneath the door. Cut to Shayla — her buoyant vibe dissipated, and right now, puzzled, pensive... RESTROOM -Straight on Jamie again. She’s looking directly at the stall door, waiting... The brief hint of fire we saw in Jamie in the beginning, that’s what we see in her eyes right now. Confidence. Straight on the stall door: which unlocks and opens carefully... revealing SHAYLA. They consider each other’s faces for the first time. Hey. 414

JAMIE

Beat.

JAMIE (CONT’D) I thought we should go to lunch. Then, a smile plays at Shayla’s lips.

Jamie smiles too.

Okay.

SHAYLA

Shayla zips her lunchbox, and follows Jamie... They leave the restroom together, side-by-side, Jamie holding her Lunchable and water bottle, and Shayla holding her lunchbox. The door CLOSES. Hold on the empty restroom. INT. LUNCHROOM. DAY (A BIT LATER) Jamie and Shayla enter the crowded and noisy Cafeteria together. They look at each other and take a small, round table by the door... Jamie unpackages her Lunchable and Shayla unzips her lunchbox and takes out her Thermos. We can’t hear what they are saying, but they’re talking together. They might even laugh. SUPER TITLE CARD: “THE LUNCHROOM” FADE OUT

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G R AC E WA R R E N - PAG E Creative Nonfiction | South Carolina Governor's School for the Arts and Humanities, Greenville, SC

Katie and Kenny Leave for Miami on Their Wedding Night, 1969: A Photograph 1. They sit in a car with velvet red interior, slouching in the backseat like teenagers, so close together their shoulders overlap, Illinois stars overhead. 2. My grandmother’s name is Katie and she marries a man named Kenny. They meet in a mall in Illinois. 3. He works at a piano shop. She works at the Belks next door. 4. They fall in love and marry in the spring of 1969. 5. The window of the car is cracked just enough for a camera to capture their smiles, the velvet, their silky black hair, Kenny’s suit, Katie’s dress, everything highlighted by the bright flash. 6. You can see the twinkle in their eyes. 7. Right before they slide into the back of the car, they wrap a piece of vanilla cake in plastic wrap, trying not to destroy the flower fondant and white buttercream icing. 8. She probably has cake under her nails. 9. I wonder if she is uncomfortable when her friends and family watch Kenny lick the cake off her fingers in the middle of the church. 10. I would be uncomfortable. 11. My grandmother’s hair is long and black and thick, frizzy from the humidity and lace wedding dress; Kenny’s moptop has grown since the engagement but his goatee is groomed. 12. Kenny’s hand is frozen in mid-wave, saying goodbye to everything he knew, leaving for Miami to become a singer at the Holiday Inn, to become a star. 13. Katie doesn’t wave goodbye. She just smiles. She doesn’t look afraid to leave. 14. (I would be afraid to leave everything behind, to get into a car and leave my hometown and my sisters and the little church on the top of the hill and my father’s homemade peach ice cream.) 15. But she knows in Miami she will dance on the ballroom carpet until she slips off her favorite black heels and ties her hair up, watches Kenny sing every night in the HUNTERS LOUNGE, Tuesday through Saturday, 9 PM till 1 AM. 16. Every night, a cigarette balances between her two fingers (the wives of the jazz singers always smoke). She likes the way the smoke leaves her mouth and fills the room while she dances barefoot and sings along to The Beatles, Bob Dylan, and Elvis. 17. Her smile is perfect. 18. Kenny dies a couple years after the wedding. 19. In the car she isn’t prepared for death. 20. She is thinking about Kenny and leaving the Illinois stars she has become so familiar with. 21. She never marries again. She quits smoking. She can’t taste another piece of vanilla cake. 22. I wonder if she ever watches the video tapes of him singing after the funeral. Maybe she hides them in a box in the attic. Maybe she shows her daughters. Of course they don’t remember him. 23. I find the picture, the newlyweds sitting in the red seats in the middle of the clear Illinois night, in a box tucked in the garage. 24. Kenny waves, his mouth is open, almost like he is saying “goodbye.” It is my favorite part of the picture because it seems alive and moving. I can hear the voice I never heard.

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25. I imagine after the picture is taken, someone starts the car and drives them away to a cheap hotel room somewhere. Kenny probably sings, Katie probably points at different stars, gives them random, mysterious names.

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ALEXA WELLS Design Arts | The Westminster Schools, Atlanta, GA

Texture Magazine Digital photography and Photoshop 2020 418

Groovy Daisy Digital photography and Photoshop 2020 419

DOMINIC WIHARSO Photography | Scituate High School, North Scituate, RI

Sticky Goat Blood Digital photography 2020 420

Bulan Digital photography 2019 421

L I LY YA N G Visual Arts | Saratoga High School, Saratoga, CA

Adaptive Radiation Mesh wires, paper towel, plastic tubes, LED lights 2020 422

Adaptive Radiation Mesh wires, paper towel, plastic tubes, LED lights 2020 423

J E S LY N Y O O Design Arts | Valencia High School, Valencia, CA

Untitled Adobe software 2020 424

Untitled Adobe software 2020 425

ARDEN YUM Creative Nonfiction | Trinity School, New York, NY

Spencer “I miss you.” “I’m still here, you know.” “I just want to say that I miss you before you’re really gone. It's an anticipatory feeling.” Spencer loved using long words that he had recently discovered in online thesauruses. English was his second language, and he often flaunted his expansive vocabulary as if he needed to prove his fluency to the world. I chuckled, rolling over onto my right shoulder to stare at the glowing harbor outside of his white-trimmed window. It must have been well past midnight, but there were still tiny flickers of light radiating off of the docks. Glittering bulbs of coral and amber floated near the water’s surface like fireflies. I imagined groups of fishermen gathered on the boats, clinking glass bottles in an imperfect circle, temporarily forgetting about their wives and children fast asleep at home. They would have to get out on the water early, in just a few hours actually, before the sun rose again. It was better not to think of the family they had to leave behind. Instead, they laughed as their drunken faces grew hot and dizzy. In the soft incandescence of the harbor, singular moments seemed eternal, conversations rattled on without the petulant reminder of time passing by, no one checked their watches on sun-drenched wrists. I envied the men on the boats, only appearing to me as small brown flecks, by imagining their circumstances. I opened my mouth, about to say something, when Spencer wrapped his long arm around my waist. “What are you thinking about?” He asked me this question whenever I was quiet for too long. I usually let his voice float in the air, either pretending to doze off or turning to gaze outside his giant window. If I had responded that I was thinking about fishermen, he would have been selfishly disappointed. “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Nothing, really.” Spencer and I could talk for hours about new music, school teachers we liked and disliked, childhood memories, potential baby names, but neither of us knew how to define the spell of entanglements and latenight car rides and groggy mornings that we continually found ourselves in. Me screaming on the tall, bedazzled carnival ride in the open air, his hand on my thigh. Eating noodles and fish cake in a family-owned Cantonese diner, sitting on makeshift stools—buckets turned upsidedown. A month after we kissed for the first time, Spencer took me to the Kowloon side of Hong Kong. We huddled close on a public bench near the water, facing the highrises in Central that were decorated in flashing neon lights. Our legs stuck together with sweat. He clasped my hand and his voice shook faintly when he said, “So, what are we doing? Not literally, I mean. In the greater sense.” I didn’t have an answer. I knew that I liked feeling the weight of his arm around my shoulder, but my hand clammed up when he insisted on holding it when we were out in public. I wondered if it was him or the pheromones that kept me coming back to his apartment at night. I dreaded the conversations he initiated about our feelings. I didn’t realize that emotions had to be verbally processed. It seemed irresponsible to place a label on something so amorphous, so dreamlike, especially when we both knew it was fleeting. Now, these memories have a soft blue overlay, the color of the sky at dusk, cracked a bit at the edges like an old reel of film. “You can come visit me in New York. I’ll ask my parents if you can stay with us.” I finally offered, staring straight out the window, 426

avoiding eye contact. The water was reflecting the lights of the harbor in a scattered, almost mosaic formation. “That sounds nice,” Spencer replied. I could hear him smiling through his teeth. I knew then that I had effectively shut him off for the night. He would leave his feelings alone and we could go back to watching movies on his flat-screen and making each other laugh during the lulls in conversation. I had kept his hope alive; if I thought that we would still be talking in two months when I moved halfway across the world, then he could believe it too. Spencer always needed reassurance from me. I suppose I was too difficult to read. Some nights, when I didn’t feign excitement or provide a vague glimpse into our future together, he would go on long tangents about our relationship that would spiral into his abstract theories on the meaning of life. I thought he sounded incredibly cheesy during these philosophic revelations, but I listened quietly, staring up at the ceiling. Of course he would say that romantic relationships took precedence over reality; he lived in a grandiose apartment, on a small island off of Hong Kong, that was decorated with colorful, oddly-shaped furniture and opened up to a massive foyer designed like an old-fashioned hotel lobby. He could drop out of school at any time and never have to worry about having enough money to live. It is an extreme privilege for love to be the only pressing issue on your mind, I remember thinking. Once, to break the uncomfortable silence after one of his more elusive and long-winded spiels, I asked him to repeat himself, as if I had not heard him correctly the first time. He laughed, and said, “And here I was thinking that you were preparing an elaborate response.” My phone vibrated on the nightstand, and I reached over to check it. The harsh blue light stung my unadjusted eyes for a second, and I blinked a few times before I could read the time and the four texts my mom had sent me, asking if I ever planned on coming home. I’m on my way back, I typed with drowsy fingers. I told Spencer that I had to go; it was already three-thirty in the morning and my parents were getting worried. He let out a groan of protest, and teasingly tugged at my arm, but he offered to take me down in the elevator. I said I was okay. I sat down on the white couch in Spencer’s lobby, and didn’t know where to rest my gaze after I asked the doorman to hail a taxi. What did he think of me? I opened up my phone camera and studied my face. Mascara was smudged underneath both my eyes, which accentuated my already atrocious under-eye circles. My concealer had also rubbed off, so tiny red bumps and browned acne scars freckled my cheekbones. My long black hair was flipped to one side, and looked tangled even though I had brushed it that morning. I imagined that the doorman was silently judging me, slut-shaming me, even, for coming out of a boy’s apartment looking disheveled and exhausted. I resented that possibility, even though I did feel somewhat dirtied. A respectable girl would have visited in the afternoon and had dinner with his family, I thought. After visiting Spencer’s house almost every day for a week straight, I had only spoken to his father once, and our awkward pleasantries had lasted less than two minutes. When the red car pulled up to the driveway, the doorman opened the door for me and I thanked him, looking at his mouth, because I was afraid to meet the disgust I was so sure filled his eyes. I wondered if the cab driver, too, judged me for being picked up so late at night. I spoke

as little as possible, paying him extra when he pulled up to my house, as if a generous tip would make up for my disgrace. Spencer and I met for breakfast the next morning, in the upstairs room of a small cafe on Queen’s Road in Central. He looked at me in my red and white t-shirt, track pants, and Adidas Superstars, and his lips turned up in a goofy grin. “I think I own every piece of that outfit,” he teased. “This is all I have left. My clothes are packed.” The verbal reminder that I was leaving and my belongings were folded in suitcases wiped the smile off his face. His shoulders tensed like they had been pulled upward by marionette strings. The waitress came to our table and filled our water glasses from a metal pitcher. She was blonde, short, and spoke with a thick Australian accent. I asked for black coffee and scrambled eggs; Spencer ordered banana french toast. I knew that I would want to try some of his dish, but it felt unnatural to ask. It was strange, I thought, how I could be wrapped up in his arms in the middle of the night and feel at ease, but I could not bring myself to ask for a bite of his food. The mundaneness made me feel a sharp vulnerability. A busboy came over with a pot of coffee. As I poured the hot black liquid into my mug, I made eye contact with Spencer, trying to capture a mental image of his face, because I didn’t know when I was going to see it again, with all of its intricacies and shadows and long lines. I thought he looked quite handsome in the soft yellow light coming through the back window; the sun was still rising. His family was from Hong Kong, but I always thought he looked more like a Korean pop star, with his hazy brown eyes and high cheekbones. Spencer’s skin was lighter than mine, the color of a butterscotch candy, and he never tanned in the sun. His lips were pink and a little too big for his face. He was freshly showered, his hair slightly damp, and smelled like laundered linen. I always complained, jokingly, that he had been unfairly blessed with long lashes; they fluttered when he spoke. Mine were short and stubby, plus I could never find a mascara that made them stick upright. When our food came, he offered me a bite of his toast. I exhaled a breath of relief I didn’t realize I had been holding in. The sticky sweet sauce melted on my tongue. “It’s your last breakfast here,” he said. “I know, you should feel honored that I’ve chosen you as my company.” “I do, actually.” Spencer blushed. I could never tell if he was oblivious to my sarcasm, or just decided to take me literally. We spoke vaguely about our friends: where they were, what they were up to this summer, when they would be coming back. There were long pauses in the conversation when Spencer would look at me intently, and I would awkwardly shift my gaze. He seemed to like to make me squirm. When we both finished eating, I excused myself to the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water. I felt like I should have been much sadder to leave than I actually was. When I got back, Spencer was downstairs and he had already paid the bill. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that.” “Of course I did.” He told me that he could drop me off at the hotel where I was staying. In the taxi, he leaned over to kiss me, and I tasted his sugarcoated lips mixed with the salty tears dripping from his eyes. I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t crying, and our emotions felt oddly unbalanced. The warm, salty-sweet kiss continued until I recognized my building outside the window. Spencer told the driver in Cantonese to wait a few minutes for him to return. The two of us got out of the car and turned to face each other. “Come here,” Spencer said in a low voice. I obliged, letting myself melt into his body. I rested my head on his shoulder. “You know, from the moment I saw you, I was infatuated by you.” He began another one of his speeches, this one even more dramatic, intense, splendid. Tinged with heartbreak. His voice eventually faded out to the sounds of traffic going by, cars and people with places to go, lives of their own. I barely heard him utter three words that sent a chill down my spine.

I was quiet. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever loved him, but Spencer sounded so unwavering. We were both only sixteen. Something in my throat prevented me from saying it back. “I’ll miss you,” I said instead, after a pause that seemed like an eternity. He leaned in to kiss me again, and I let him, but I pulled away after a few seconds because I was afraid that my parents would come downstairs and see. He crossed the street to the taxi, disappearing from my sight in seconds. My parents and I took a car to the airport. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint the feeling in my stomach. It was a mixture of uncertainty and sadness and relief. I was lighter without him, somehow. I quickly dismissed this sensation and pulled out my phone. Hey, I texted Spencer, I miss you. I mean it, not knowing if I did. A few seconds later, a flashing light popped up on my screen. I miss you so much more. The rest of the trip home rushed by like a dream. *

We lost touch after a month, when phone calls became text messages, sparsely worded and with large gaps in between. On September 21st, it had been fifteen days since we had spoken. Although a part of me was relieved to say goodbye to him outside the taxi a little over a month before, I selfishly expected him to stay in my life, there for me if I needed him. The way he seemed to move on so quickly was an unexpected betrayal. At night, I slipped on my white tennis shoes and leather jacket, and left my apartment without saying goodbye to my family. My consciousness leapt out of itself as I walked down Madison Avenue, watching my body drift across the gum-stained, grey sidewalk. I heard Spencer’s voice, from that night near the water, when he asked me what we were doing, playing over and over again like a broken tape recorder. I still didn’t know. The image of his face appeared like stained glass in my line of vision. I forgot where I was and where I had intended to go. I didn’t want to admit that I had given an irrecoverable piece of myself to Spencer, yet I felt this stinging in my heart, like I was mourning the loss of a cherished fragment that had been stolen away but could not pinpoint exactly what it was. Even my thoughts had gaping holes in them. I kept repeating to myself: What is my life without Spencer in it? I didn’t want to be with him, the boy made of flesh and charm and arrogance and new clothes. I don’t know if I ever have, even when we were together. But his memory had transformed into an entirely new entity, a projection of my desires, the life I left behind in Hong Kong, the warmth of his skin, the gentle way he said my name. I thought again of the fishermen, laughing on the harbor long after the sun had set, as if time did not exist. Maybe forever could be contained into a single night, a single summer. Maybe that’s all we were ever supposed to be.

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YEWON YUN Visual Arts | Seoul International School, Gyeonggi-Do, KR

The Weight Linen, ink, thread, brushes, timer, net, paper, acrylic, cotton 2020 428

Spaced Out Oil on canvas 2020 429

SO F IA Z A M O R A-WI L E Y Creative Nonfiction | The University of Texas Rio Grande Valley, Brownsville, TX

An Implied Taste I’ve always hated onions. My dad passed this trait on to me, and it’s such a deeply rooted hatred, I wouldn’t be shocked if someone said it was genetic, ingrained in my DNA. “When I was in high school,” my dad told me once, “my teachers used to compliment me on my pipetting skills and my precision with tweezers.” He made a pinching motion with his fingers when he talked about the tweezers. “They said I could be a brain surgeon. And you know what I said?” I shook my head, already laughing. “I said, it’s from picking all the onions out of my mom’s food growing up!” My dad is a musician and I’m a writer, but we carry ourselves a little differently knowing that, in some other lifetime, we could be neurosurgeons. ***

In sixth grade, I was bullied so much in public school my parents withdrew me to homeschool me. They were both teachers, which made my education superior, but living on two teachers’ salaries was hard enough already. Neither of them could sacrifice their job to stay home and really homeschool me, so I spent the days at my sister Camila’s house, and they taught me when they got home from work. Dad taught me math out of a thick yellow workbook and science from an encyclopedia, and mom gave me books—so many books—to read and write reports on. She gave me spelling words and Latin vocabulary. It was a well-rounded curriculum, not too much or too little for me. At the time, Camila had recently given birth to her first daughter, Luna, and she was soon to find out she was pregnant with her second. I tried to help around the house when I wasn’t working; I felt like it was only right that I contribute if I was such a significant part of her life. My mom insisted that I not be a burden to my sister in any way, including with food, so I usually brought something from home to eat, something microwaveable or re-heatable. But, after about a month, Camila noticed this pattern in my eating habits. “Is that the third time you’ve brought ramen this week?” She looked at my bowl with such concern and distaste, I hesitated to answer. “Yes?” I replied like it was a question. “Oh, come on. What else do you usually bring besides that?” “Um, Spaghettios, ravioli—” “Ravioli? Like, homemade ravioli?” “Uh, no. Chef Boyardee.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” She pushed herself up from the table where she’d been sitting across from me and crossed her arms. “You know what? As long as you’re going to be staying here, I’m going to teach you how to cook. Not put something in the microwave— cook. For real.” So, over the next few months, Camila made me watch her make lunch for herself and Luna, and eventually, I started helping, chopping and stirring and slicing whatever she asked me to. I learned what all the spices in her cabinet did and what they tasted good with. She made me taste things before adding spice, and then again once she’d added it. She always laughed excitedly at my change in demeanor afterwards. She had me taste a dish one afternoon that I hadn’t watched her make. I told her it was delicious as I fanned my mouth from the heat. She smiled, but it was a suspicious smile, and I swallowed what was in my mouth nervously. “Guess what?” I froze. “What did you do?” 430

“I put onion powder in it!” She made jazz hands in the air in celebration. I faked a gag, and she rolled her eyes at me. “Oh, come on! You said it was good before you knew there was onion in it. Try another bite!” I took another spoonful of the stew, but this time, I smelled the onion before I tasted it. It was like trying a completely different dish. I felt my face morph into something ugly, heard her laugh, and choked the rest down reluctantly. “You’re so dramatic, just like dad. It’s an implied taste. If I hadn’t told you, you wouldn’t have even noticed it was there. You would’ve eaten ten servings.” I thought about what she said. Was dad dramatic for not liking things? I’d always interpreted dad’s refusal to eat onions, his unwillingness to sacrifice his taste buds at a meal, as his way of maintaining his standards. I’d always thought he taught his girls to do the same. ***

Joaquin took a day off work about two months after the family found out Camila was pregnant with her second daughter. I watched Camila grow antsier by the day, and I attributed this to her pregnancy, so more than I ever had before, I tried to help with little tasks around the house. Camila, Luna, and I at the dinner table while we waited for Joaquin to return with Burger King, a special treat for his day off with the family. I’d been clear when I said I didn’t want onions on my Whopper, and he’d smiled and promised me he’d check to make sure there were none. While Luna did her puzzle, Camila quizzed me on the vocabulary my mom had assigned me for that week. She was reading off a list of Latin root words when she slowly trailed off, looking distracted, her eyebrows knitted together. “Cam, are you okay?” I flicked the top of her hand to get her attention. “What? Oh, yeah, of course! I’m…excited Joaquin’s going to be with us today. He never gets time off to just be with us.” The security in her tone didn’t match the look of concern on her face, but I didn’t think or care to probe further. I let it go. Joaquin returned with our food, and I moved with Luna to the den where she could watch The Jungle Book while we ate on TV tables on their leather couches. I watched the movie with her, and Camila stayed in the kitchen with Joaquin. I heard the sink running and the TV blaring “I Wanna Be Like You” as I unwrapped my burger and took a bite. Immediately, I spit the still-intact bite out of my mouth and removed the burger’s top bun in disgust. Sure enough, six worm-like caramelized onions were there, peeking through a pile of shredded lettuce, like whoever had made my burger had tucked them in under a green blanket and read them a bedtime story, unaware that they were possessed by evil little flavor demons. I was annoyed that Joaquin hadn’t checked like he swore he would, but I decided not to complain and ruin the good energy, just to take my topless burger to the trashcan and scrape the onions off as best I could. Dad showed me a video once of a foley artist recording noises for special effects for a movie. To make a punching sound, the man wrapped a baseball bat in newspaper and then whacked a phone book. To make a slap sound, he wore a thick glove and clapped his forearm, then layered it with the sound of him hitting a can. The sound I heard in the kitchen before I could round the corner was nothing like the foley slap of the glove and the can. There was no

comical echo, no sharpness to it. It was dull and short, a dry sound. I heard Camila spit in the sink. “Come on, Camila. Can I not trust you to be at home by yourself ? What are we gonna do when the baby comes, and then you’re taking care of three kids? Fuck!” I walked back with radio static between my ears and sat in front of the TV next to Luna. She had eaten a few french fries and a chicken nugget, and she immediately came and put her head in my lap without looking away from the screen. I let her stay there instead of encouraging her to eat more, and I put the top bun back on my burger. Camila only had two daughters, and one was still unborn. When Joaquin said she couldn’t handle three kids, I realized the third was me. I hadn’t known he saw me as a burden. I thought he liked me. I thought he appreciated what I did for Camila and Luna when he was away. I frowned as I reflected on our interactions, looking for something in my memory that would reveal his resentment towards me. As I played back the tapes of our conversations, I realized something else: he didn’t like my sister, either. I wondered if Camila knew that. How could she not? He had just slapped her, right? Certainly, that meant she couldn’t love him. I could never love someone that hurt me. But, then again, I’d never had to. Joaquin came into the living room with his food, a friendly smile on his face, and sat in the matching leather chair, perpendicular to the couch. He asked me how school was going. I don’t remember replying, but I must have. I couldn’t look at him. Camila came in about fifteen minutes later, the tip of her nose pink, and sat down on the couch next to Luna, sandwiching her between us. I stared over Luna’s head at Camila till she looked at me. When she did, she gave me a smile that failed to hide her watery eyes. She looked from me to Luna, and then to Joaquin. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then tried again. “I’m just…I’m just so glad we have this day together. We’re really blessed to have this.” She kept staring at Joaquin’s turned head. I could almost hear her begging him in her head to look back at us. Joaquin nodded, but he didn’t look back. I pretended the onions weren’t hiding under the soggy bread of my burger, and I ate the entire thing.

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ALENA ZENG Poetry | BASIS Independent Silicon Valley, San Jose, CA

Postcard with Burning Sky A–––, you haven’t been back to California in a while so here’s a memory from the summer: evening & the sun turns over & pollution or smoke or something else alights the sky in orange & red, clouds streaming against the horizon. Wildfire season—maybe in another city there's a real emergency, a fire carving through a highway—but here everything is calm, here fire is just another color soaking into a sky outlined in chalk & here people fold themselves inside, air conditioning working over their skin, to watch through a window. Their hands stilled with remembering. The chapped asphalt seethes even at night, & the enveloping, ripe heat burns clean through the world like a bullet: everything muffled & trembling in its wake. There are only ever a few stars in the deepening blue sky, but I wanted to tell you the flowers on our windowsill still expand as if stretching to stargaze for the first time. & the dry, goldenrod moon shifts above the imprints of people left behind in the grass. For the orange pooling of streetlamps on sidewalks, the tiny insects whirling in each band of light, suspended in their own tiny worlds—this endless burning of our unmoving, endless days & night strolls & quiet restlessness, where a halo of heat hangs static over our heads under the guise of an unwrapped, brilliant sky—come back.

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open water after Chopin’s Étude Op. 25, No. 12 — “Ocean” étude named for its turbulence and velocity, its unbridled crests. C minor: a gasping for breath. unblinking and cold, we brace for its finality— seascape of black and white keys, all jagged brightness making and unmaking. the highest notes retreat like birds atop the accelerating storm, and at night we listen to the odd resonance of backwash and falling apart—our own wreckage and driftwood desolation bleeding into the water. the sky slashed open. we are so beautiful in the loud, brief glare of sudden light. look at the toss and turn, arpeggios buoyed up in torrents, the bare contour of the right hand— the rest of the world fractured and pulsating to the echo of thunder, gunshots. this country’s silhouette blurred in rain. all the reverberations and rhythm of waves splitting along the shore. we refuse to settle. tell me someday we’ll find our way to the other side of this senseless horizon. we are so human in our rawness. tell me about the unquietly tragic production of sound. tell me we are both storm and the ocean it breaks upon.

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ZHOU ZHANG Visual Arts | Highland Park High School, Highland Park, NJ

COVID-19: II Charcoal and charcoal pencil on paper 2020 434

COVID-19:VIII Charcoal and charcoal pencil on paper 2020 435

JER RY ZHAO Photography | St. Mark's School of Texas, Dallas, TX

Cost of Information Digital photography 2020 436

Be a Man Digital photography 2020 437

E DWA R D ZH O U Design Arts | Nikola Tesla STEM High School, Redmond, WA

Atikokan Chocolate Adobe Photoshop, Adobe Illustrator, Adobe Dimension, Figma 2020 438

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YUER ZHU Design Arts | Ames High School, Ames, IA

Living Among Whiteness Adobe software 2020 440

Living Among Whiteness Adobe software 2020 441

A B O U T N AT I O N A L YO U N G A R T S F O U N D AT I O N

Supporting The Arts Keeps Us On Our Toes, Too. Northern Trust is proud to support YoungArts. For more than 130 years, we’ve been meeting our clients’ financial needs while nurturing a culture of caring and a commitment to invest in the communities we serve. In other words, we’re a proud dance partner. FOR MORE INFORMATION VISIT

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WEALTH PLANNING | BANKING | TRUST & ESTATE SERVICES | INVESTING | FAMILY OFFICE 444

A B O U T YO U N G A RTS National YoungArts Foundation (YoungArts) was established in 1981 by Lin and Ted Arison. YoungArts identifies the most accomplished young artists in the visual, literary and performing arts, and provides them with creative and professional development opportunities throughout their careers. Entrance into this prestigious organization starts with a highly competitive application process for talented artists ages 15–18, or grades 10–12, in the United States, that is judged by esteemed discipline-specific panels of artists through a rigorous blind adjudication process. All YoungArts award winners receive financial awards and the chance to learn from notable artists such as Debbie Allen, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Frank Gehry, Wynton Marsalis, Salman Rushdie and Mickalene Thomas as well as past YoungArts award winners such as Daniel Arsham, Terence Blanchard, Camille A. Brown, Viola Davis, Allegra Goodman, Josh Groban, Judith Hill, Tarell Alvin McCraney, Andrew Rannells, Desmond Richardson and Hunter Schafer. YoungArts award winners are further eligible for exclusive opportunities including: nomination as a U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts, one of the nation’s highest honors for high school seniors; a wide range of creative development support including fellowships, residencies and awards; professional development programs offered in partnership with major institutions nationwide; additional financial support; and access to YoungArts Post, a private, online portal for YoungArts artists to connect, share their work and discover new opportunities. For more information, visit us at youngarts.org and on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. Share your stories at @youngarts.org.

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N O TA B L E A L U M N I

*U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts † YoungArts Guest Artist

Doug Aitken 1986, Visual Arts†

Daniel Arsham 1999, Visual Arts†

Hernan Bas 1996, Visual Arts

Terence Blanchard 1980, Classical Music

Doug Blush 1984, Film†

Camille A. Brown 1997, Dance*

Timothée Chalamet 2013, Theater

Gerald Clayton 2002, Jazz*†

Viola Davis 1983, Theater

Allegra Goodman 1985, Writing*

Josh Groban 1999, Theater†

Judith Hill 2002, Voice†

Jennifer Koh

1994, Classical Music*

Sarah Lamb 1998, Dance*†

Tarell Alvin McCraney 1999, Theater†

Jason Moran 1993, Jazz†

Eric Owens 1988, Voice†

Billy Porter 1987, Theater

Andrew Rannells 1997, Theater†

Desmond Richardson 1986, Dance*†

Elizabeth Roe

2000, Classical Music*†

Hunter Schafer 2017, Design Arts

Zuzanna Szadkowski 1997, Theater*†

Kerry Washington 1994, Theater†

Chris Young 2003, Voice*†

GUEST ARTISTS Derrick Adams Debbie Allen Paola Antonelli Mikhail Baryshnikov Michelle Dorrance

Lisa Fischer Frank Gehry Jonathan Groff Diana Al Hadid Bill T. Jones

Naeem Khan Wynton Marsalis Bobby McFerrin Dr. Joan Morgan José Parlá

Rosie Perez Phylicia Rashad Eugene Richards Daniel Bernard Roumain Sir Salman Rushdie

Jeanine Tesori Mickalene Thomas Rebecca Walker Carrie Mae Weems Jeff Zeigler

SPECIAL T HAN KS TO E D U C AT O R S

YoungArts would like to acknowledge the following 618 educators, named by our 2021 winners. We appreciate and value their teaching, mentorship and support, whether in school or in private instructional settings. Mona Abdelaziz Bernard Addison Brocke Addison Jeff Adkins Omead Afshari Kristy Agazarian Lee Akamichi Vince Alban Boris Allakhverdyan Alyssa Allgood Alberto Almarza Ning An Andy Anderson Dr. Tony Anderson Mariann Annecchino Bill Anthony Angela Anyzeski Robert Apostle Dallin Applebaum Marcelo Araujo-Cox Isabela Arbelaez Carla Ardito Elena Arseniev Dodie Askegard Jim Aveni Janet Averett Luzvic Backstrom Dale Baker Todd Baldosser Brett Banducci Colleen Barber Brad Barfield Katie Barnard Jasmine Barnes Sherrol Barnes-Burton Ernest Barretta Itzel Basualdo Jeffrey Baykal-Rollins Michael Beaman Jean Marc Bekaldi Karen Bennett George Beratis Jake Bergevin Alvaro Bermudez Betsy Bishop Yvette Bishop Johnathan Black Tema Blackstone Joe Block Joseph Block Angela Blount Robyn Bollinger Joseph Bongiovi Sandra Bosko Kaitlin Botts Lora Bowers John Bragle Jean Braithwaite Tadej Brdnik Judy Buendia Sara Buffamanti Scott Burns Isabella Bustamante Wha Kyung Byun Alisa Caldwell

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Roan Callahan Obed Calvaire Nigel Campbell Diana Canova Natalie Cardillo Shannon Carter Cristina Castaldi Gilbert Castellanos Charles Castleman Emmanuel Ceysson Cleon Chai Salvatore Champagne Eric Chang Westen Charles Jesse Chehak Huifang Chen Hung-Kuan Chen Xiao Chen Yuanan Cheng Tom Childs Catherine Cho Hyunjin Cho Rufus Choi Seung-Ho Choi Wook Choi Elena Cholakova Chu Chu Jim Cifelli Bruce Claypool Erik Clayton John Clayton Kevin Cline Karon Cogdill Angie Cohen Sara Cohen Gwendolyn Coleman Gina Coletti Ralph Colombino Terane Comito Heather Conner Brendan Constantine Paul Contos Constance Conway Thatcher Cook Brandon Coon Mairi Cooper Stephanie Copeland Sarah Council Justin Cox Rhett Cox Connie Crawford Michael Creedon Nicole Croy Taiwo Cummings Rozie Curtis Ena Dallas Thang Dao Chanel DaSilva Johnathan Davidson Richard Day Norbert De La Cruz III Chris DeLeon Brian Delgado Elizbeth Dennehy Allan Dennis

Francesca dePasquale Katie Dey William Dickerson Candace Dickinson Oliver Diez Rina Dokshitsky Eric Domuret Christopher Dorsey Antonio Douthit-Boyd Kirven Douthit-Boyd Chris Drangle Glushirin Dubash Bruce Dudley Tristram Duncan Catherine Dunn Chad Eby Jennifer Elowitch Nicole Erb Kent Eshelman Mike Esneault Conor Fagan Dominick Farinacci Tom Farrell Alex Farrior Rose Fearon Wendy Feldman Bart Feller Scott Fenton Juan Sebastian Fernandez Mila Filatova Leonid Finkelshteyn Andrew Fippinger Lea Floden Michaela Florio Kristen Foote Vicky Fowler Ryan Francis Julie Friedrich Natsuki Fukasawa Joel Fulgham Kristina Fulton Jed Galant Misha Galant La Moin Garrard James Gasior Drew Gasparini Carly Gates Daniel Gee Cordova Amy Gelb Emily Geller-Hardman Michael Genevay Calvin Gentry Sarah Gibson Jennifer Gifford Yehuda Gilad James Giles Jennifer Gilmore Tim Gilmore Melissa Glosmanova Rudi Goblen Amal Gochenour Gila Goldstein William Goldyn Jennifer Golonka Juliana Gondek

Lucas Gonzalez Scott Gould Jennifer Grantham Kelly Green Zachary Greenberg Tatum Greenblatt Allen Grimm Henry Gronnier Mark Gross Jennifer Gruca Benjamin Guerette Lance Guillermo Troy Gunter Jeremy Guskin Suzanna Guzman Michelle Hache Matthew Hagle Alex Hahn Rajiv Halim Julia Hall John Hallberg Evelyn Halus Zachary Hammer Eric Hankin Amanda Hardy Natalia Harlap Alexa Harris Marti Harris Corey Hart Sarah Haslock-Johnson Sheryl Hauk Marshall Hawkins Karina Hean Lynise Heard Denise Heard- Latimer Philip Hembree Tamir Hendelman Morgan Hicks Rusty Higgins David Higgs Matt Hightower Lisa Hiton Monica Hoenig Doug Holzapfel Thomas Hornig Peter Horvath Katy Hosey Ronald Houston Don Howe Andrew Huff Matt Hune Scott Hunt Chris Hunter Lois Hunter Gillian Hurst Sherry Insley Michael Jacko Judie Jackowitz Derrick Jackson Shawn Jaeger Robert Janssen Marietta Joe Jennifer John Susan Johnson Katherine Jolly

Erin Jones Phillip Jones Rhoslyn Jones Fay Kaiser Courtney Kaiser-Sandler Jimmy Kansau Laurie Kanyok Moss Kaplan Uma Karkala Olya Katsman Alan Kay Stephen Kazakoff Gary Keller Nina Kelly Jean-Marie Kent Kamau Kenyatta Jeffrey Khaner Alla Khaniashvili Brian Kieffer Clara Kim Min Kim Myung Kim Sabrina Kim Soovin Kim Michael Klotz Azar Kohzadi Sarah Koo Alexander Korsantia Mark Kramer Zak Krevitt Jimmy Kritikos Thomas Krueger Thomas Kucharski Dmitri Kulev Minji Kwon Maryann Kyle Jeanai La Vita Peter LaBerge Joan Lader Jade Lambert-Smith Vadim Lando Erin Langley Adam Larson Lenise Latimer Davis Law Cheryl Lee I-Hao Lee Jennifer Lee Joohee Lee Michael Lee Mike Lee Myong-joo Lee Yu Jeong Lee Brittany Leisy Aaron Leiva David Leon Neal Lerner Jamey Leverett Max Levinson Jen Levitt Michael Lewin Branddi Lewis Kyle Lewis Nino Liguori Jing Lin

Li Lin Owen Lipsett Robert Lipsett Yifan Liu Derrick Logan Beatrice Long Frank Lopez Janene Lovullo Lisanne Lyons Julian MacDonough Andres Machin Evan Mack Peter Mack Mona MacPhail Louis Maffei John Mahoney Christopher Mallett Jeremy Manasia Jon Manasse Beverly Manning Lautaro Mantilla Barry Markowitz Pamela Martchev Luca Masala Greta Matassa Laura Matula Isiah Maxey Krista Mays John McCarthy Brice McCasland Drew McClellan Carol McClure Alex McDonald Marcy McDonald Robert McHeffey Robert McIntosh Sarah McIntyre Keenan McKenzie Kevin McKeown Eleanor McKinley Julie McManus Rich Medd Joe Medina Mary Meese Nick Meola Randi Metsch-Ampel Marie Michuda Dortenzio Marilyn Mims Deborah Moench Michael Molloy Ernesto Montes Joel Moore Rich Moore Amber Morris David Morris Vanessa Morris Steven Mortier Robyn Moser Lorraine Moten Melissa Mulligan Anastasia Munoz Daniel Murray Rhonda Murray Victoria Mushkatkol Yoshikazu Nagai

Kim Nazarian Ayako Neidich Jordan Nelson Tim Nelson David Nields Aki Nishiguchi Nadje Noordhuis Kyle Novy Lorraine Nubar Kerry O'Malley Marina Obukovsky Garrick Ohlsson Eric Olson Marcus Omari Afshari Omead Danielle Ondarza Russell Orlando Derrick Ortega Alexandra Pacheco-Garcia HaeSun Paik Esther Pardo Chungwha Park Hongsik Park Arlie Parker Dawn Parker Jassmine Parks Andrew Parr Linda Parr Eric Patterson Luke Payne Joseph Pecoraro Andrew Peoples Angelia Perkins Victoria Pero Mika Perrine Kathryn Peters Sheryl Peterson Graydon Peterson Dane Philipsen Damani Phillips Jonathan Pinson Angela Polk Jaqueline Porter Thomas Potter Shermie Potts Bindu Pratap Guinea Price Rees Pugh Lyubov Pyatkovskaya Fred Randolph Harriett Rawlins Hill Reginald Ray-Savage Kristen Rector Michael Reese Aviram Reichert Lisa Rene Travis Reneau Igor Resnianski John Reynolds Beth Rhode Linda Ricciardi Thomas Riccobono Robin Rice Heather Richey Brittany Rigdon

Cora Riley Douglas Rioth Richard Ripani John Rising Denise Ritter Ramon Rivera Lauren Rivera Salwa Rizkalla Celeste Robbins Michele Rodriguez Evan Rogovin Beth Rohde Catherine Rollin Linda Rollo Mindy Ronayne Bree Rosen Warren Rosenaur Michael Rossi Daniel Rotem Chrys Rowe Tracy Rowell Isidore Rudnick Desiré Ruhstrat Tomasz Rzeczycki Joe Sacksteder Elias Salazar Don Salerno Nabila Santa-Cristo Mac Santiago Rolando Sarabia Kaustavi Sarkar Mariko Sato-Berger David Scalise Jake Schaefer Matthew Schlomer Tuffet Schmelzle Dan Schnelle Sean Schulze Mark Scott Stephen Scott Andy Sealy Lee Secard Eddie Severn Wendy Sharp Robert Shaut Karlya Shelton-Benjamine Dr. Katherine Sherwood White Dorothy Shi Youjin Shin Theresa Shovlin Susan Silva Nicholas Simpson Trevor Sindorf Ryan Skiles David Skinner Lauren Slack Boris Slutsky Mark Small Lynda Smith Ronald Smith Theresa Smith-Levin Amanda Smolek Dustin Smurthwaite Warren Sneed

Shayna Snider Natasha Snitkovsky Miriam Socoloff Monica Song Giovanna Sorondo Michelle Stafford Nancy Stagnitta Leah Stahl Peter Stark Sarah Stewart Mark Stonebarger Michael Straw Inwoo Su Stephanie Surles Ben Sutin Ian Swensen Peter Takacs Gabriella Tallmadge Laura Tan Naoko Tanaka Ramses Terrero Corey Thayer Dearing Thoburn Dwight Thomas Michael Thomopoulos Lisa Thornbrue Teresa Tierney Sarah Tolar Julius Tolentino John Tranter Tania Travers Katherine Trimble Wayne Tromble Jayce Tromsness Stephanie Trump Matthew Truss (RIP) Janet Tseng Dainius Vaicekonis David Valdez Vanessa Valentin Almita Vamos Gretchen Van Hoesen Kevin Velasquez Steven Vermouth Peter Vinograde Robin Von Breton Corbin Wagner Ted Walch John Walcutt Anna Walker-Roberts Sooka Wang Dani Warden Eugene Watanabe Richard Weems Zhao Wei Yung-chiao Wei Donald Weilerstein Em Weinstein William Wellborn Amber Westphal Sallie White Pat Whiteman Craig Wich Austin Willacy Dan Williams

Matt Williams Willie Williams Everett Wilson Julie Wilson Phil Wilson Thomas Wilson Kristin Winchester Brice Winston Cara Wodka Lawrence Wolfe Jill Womack Josh Wood Derek Woods Timathea Workman Randee Workowski Malissa Wright Brian Wuttke Stella Xu Sandy Yamamoto Grace Yang Paul Yanko Hanumantha Rao Yelamanchili Joobin Yi Won-Bin Yim Hyeri Yoon Stacy Young Joann Zajac Jocelyn Zelasko Zheng Zeng Areta Zhulla Dann Zinn Veda Zuponcic

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BOARD OF TRUSTEES Chair Sarah Arison President Richard Kohan Secretary Natalie Diggins Treasurer Richard S. Wagman† Derrick Adams Doug Blush* Linda Coll Brian Cullinan Kristy Edmunds Bernardo Fort-Brescia Jay Franke* Danielle Garno, Esq. Rosie Gordon Wallace Michi Matter Jigarjian Jason Kraus Steven Marks, Esq. Michael McElroy* William L. Morrison John J. O’Neil, Esq. Glenda Pedroso Victoria Rogers Marcus Sheridan Jean Shin* Zuzanna Szadkowski* Sandra Tamer Joseph M. Thompson Maurice M. Zarmati Trustees Emeritus Armando M. Codina Meryl Comer Justin DiCioccio Agnes Gund John J. Kauffman Dr. Ronald C. McCurdy Dr. Eduardo J. Padrón Desmond Richardson*

*YoungArts alumnus/a/i †Trustee Emeritus 450

S TA F F EXECUTIVE OFFICE Jewel Malone | Executive Director Donna Lane Downey | Executive Assistant ARTISTIC PROGRAMS Roberta Behrendt Fliss | Director of Productions Joey Butler | Alumni Programs Manager Kelley Kessell* | Alumni Community Manager Rebekah Lanae Lengel* | Senior Director of Artistic Programs Lisa Leone | Vice President of Artistic Programs Luisa Múnera | Exhibitions Manager Lauren Snelling | Senior Director of Alumni Programming Ty Taylor | Manager of Operations and Archival Media Jennifer Toth | Artistic Programs Coordinator Claire Traeger | Artistic Programs Manager Neidra Ward | Senior Manager of Artistic Programs ADVAN CE M E NT Tanesha Ferguson | Advancement Coordinator Angela Goding | Senior Director of Advancement Sarah Gray | Director of Institutional Giving Alyssa Krop-Brandfon | Director of Advancement Operations Lauren Nesslein | Advancement Operations Manager Jeri Rayon | Director of Advancement Nada Ridard | Advancement Manager Dee Dee Sides | Vice President of Advancement S T R AT E G I C CO M M U N I C AT I O N S Jazmyn Beauchan | Strategic Communications Coordinator Shea Brodsky | Digital Communications Strategist Dejha Carrington | Vice President of Strategic Communications Lee Cohen Hare | Creative Director Heike Dempster | Senior Public Relations Manager Isabela Dos Santos* | Social Media and Video Manager Leslie Reed | Project Coordinator O P E R AT I O N S Candia Joseph | Accountant Jennifer McShane | Interim Facilities Director Natalie Padró-Smith | Events and Operations Associate Samantha Wheatley | Senior Director of Human Resources Chris Williams | Director of Finance I N F O R M AT I O N T E C H N O LO GY Michael Rahaman | IT Manager Claudio Sampaio | IT Manager

*YoungArts alumnus/a/i

YO U N G A RT S A P P L I C AT I O N PRESENTERS & AMBASSADORS Priscilla Aleman* Joshua Banbury* Daveed Buzgalo* Eli Dreyfuss* Megan Gillespie* Mara Jill Herman* Timothy Lee* Deborah Magdalena Aaron Miller* Alanna Morris-Van Tassel* Ayane Nakajima* Michelle F. Patrick* David Potters* SHENEQUA* Vic Shuttee* Patty Suau* Roxanne Young*

TOG E TH E R The Together campaign affirms our vision of empowering artists to pursue a life in the arts and highlights our belief that artists bring us together. We need artists to inspire, transform and heal our communities. We need them to challenge us as a society, to develop new language and to bring us together in empathy and in humanity. Join us on this journey at youngarts.org/together.

2021 SU PPORTER S Thank you to our Together campaign co-chairs

SARAH ARISON + AM R AAHS AWRIILSHOENL M + T HSO THOMAS WILHELM

MICHI + CHARLES MICH J IIG+ACRHJ IAARNL E S N ION 7 GJ IFGOAURNJ IDAAT 7 G F O U N D AT I O N

J AY F R A N K E + + DJ AY AV IFDR AHNE K R ER O D AV I D H E R R O

We are most grateful to the partners and friends who make our ongoing programs possible MM AADDE EL LE EI N E + MICKY INE + MICKY AARRI SI SOONN SS A ND D RR AA ++ TTOONNYY AN TAM MEERR TA

AAGGNNEESSGGUUNNDD

AVI D I DDDEECCHHMMAANN ++ DDAV M I C M I C HHE ELL MMEERRCCUURREE

N ATA ATA LL II EE D N DIIGGGGIINNSS + O R E N M + O R E N M IICCHHEELLSS H EE K TT H KR RA AU USS FFAAM MIILY LY F O U N D AT I O N F O U N D AT I O N

ANN AND GORDON AGNEN R AT D OI N T TAYNFDO G UO ND ON G E T T Y F O U N D AT I O N S T E V E N + OX A N A ST E V E M N A+ROX KS ANA MARKS

T H E F I N E A N D G R E E N WA L D T H EF O F IUNNEDAAT NIDO G EN NR , IEN C .WA L D F O U N D AT I O N , I N C . ALISON MASS + MAARS IST O + SAALLI SBO ON MM SAL BOMMARITO

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We believe in encouraging the growth of the artist of the future Aon Private Risk Management (APRM) is a leading global organization that offers extensive experience in servicing the personal insurance needs of successful families and their advisors. APRM provides highly specific risk solutions through specialty practice groups including, but not limited to, the Art & Collections Practice, the Global Yacht Practice and Family Office Practice. For more information please visit aon.com or contact Blythe Hogan at 212.441.2409.

2021 Anthology and Catalogue: Select Works by 2021 YoungArts Honorable Mention and Merit Winners

Articles inside

CHARLOTTE MCCOMBS

ADAR MARCUS

KEA KAMIYA

AMARACHI CHIMEZIE

HANNAH BAMBACH

ALENA ZENG

SOFIA ZAMORA-WILEY

ARDEN YUM

GRACE WARREN-PAGE

GRACE WANG

MAXWELL ROBISON

LAUREL MORA

KATELYN LU

EMILY LIU

ISABELLA JIANG

YUER ZHU

EDWARD ZHOU

JERRY ZHAO

ZHOU ZHANG

YEWON YUN

JESLYN YOO

LILY YANG

DOMINIC WIHARSO

ALEXA WELLS

PAOLO VACALA

ALYSSA UNDERWOOD

HAMI TRINH

VICTORIA TENNANT

LILOU TAUBAN

LAURA STERNBACH

JULIE SONG

ALEXANDRA SLABAKIS

SHEINA-RUTH SKUY-MARCAN

ASHLEY SHAN

VIOLET SCHUBERT

LUIS SANDOVAL

KARINA RODRIGUEZ

JAELA ROBINSON

AMY RIUMBAU

ABEL REYES

BLAIR REEVES

TIFFANY QIU

SCARLETT PINKEY

ASEN KIM OU

HALEY JOYCE OLIVER

ANNA NICKLESS

CHARLIE NEVINS

STEVIA NDOE

YEON JOO NAM

MADISON MINISEE

JADEN MCGUIRE

KRISTINA MARSHALL

ALEXIA MARRIOTT

TRAVIS MANN

GABRIELLE MANION

ALICE LUBIN-MEYER

JACQUELINE LIU

ALLISON LIANG

CAMILLE LEVY

RYLEIGH LEON

MICHAEL LAURITO

TOVA KLEINER

EMMA KIMMEL

SAMI KHAN

PENELOPE JUAREZ

TIFFANY JOHNSON

SHUI HU

THOMAS HICKS

ARIAH HAMBURG

QUINN ERICKSON

THERESE ENRIQUEZ

ALEXANDER EMERY

KENDAL DUFF

STEVE DOU

AALIYAH DEMPSEY

MCKENNA CHRISTIANSEN

AYDEN CHI

LORY CHARLES