Mark My Words Spring 2015 by Melissa DiPalma

mark my

words Mark My Words Spring 2015 Keene State College Faculty Coordinators: Melissa DiPalma, Kirsti Sandy Printing made possible with generous support by the KSC Graphic Design and English Departments For more information contact ksandy@keene.edu Cover design by Ian Chouinard Introduction design by Danny Cobbs

For designers, working with other creative people like writers, photographers and illustrators, is a common and often rewarding part of the design process. We started the The Mark My Words journal as a way to encourage students to collaborate across disciplines and apply their unique talents and skills to a single project. To produce the journal, designers and authors are paired together to create each of the articles and show how words and images work together to tell a story. Kirsti Sandy and her students again contributed thoughtful essays which became the inspiration for the designers and the cornerstone of our theme for this issue: Memories.

â&#x20AC;&#x201C; melissa dipalma, lecturer, graphic design English majors are, once again, fortunate to have the opportunity to see their writing come to life on the page, thanks to Melissa DiPalma and her graphic design students. In the current world of literary publishing, writers must understand the design process, as the way a piece is visually presented impacts how readers respond to and understand it. Because the graphic design students and the English students meet to talk about the pieces at several points in the semester, both groups come away from the experience understanding a bit more about form and content, collaboration and vision. As you can see from this edition of Mark my Words, the arts continue to thrive at Keene State College.

â&#x20AC;&#x201C; kirsti sandy, chair, department of english

Mark My Words Spring 2015

Table of Contents

06 08 10 12 14 Passengers Jewel Bean

Shirtless Maxwell Blanchette

Three Dresses

This Too Shall Pass

Two Bits

Rebecca Costanzo

Kaitlyn Derry

Danielle Field

22 28 Lessons from the Kitchen

A Walk in the Snow

Julia Lagace

Jordan Lemerise

16 18

Muffin Head

Held Back

Mylynda Gill

Alyson Jones

30 32 38 40 The Big Blue House Jocelyn Lovering

Gone Fishinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;

Sam Magee

Little Jokes About Cancer

Recompense for Precipitation

Scott Steere

Katherine Marinoff

Table of Contents Designed By Cassandra Baron

Mark My Words

by Jewel Bean

I tune into the weather station’s thirty minute consultation; the reporter briefs us on fashion week and the rising tensions in Ukraine before two minutes of low fifties, high eighties and a forty percent chance of something falling from the sky. She then interviews neighbors who dissolve into a heated discussion of daily battles and border tensions before the meteorologist cuts in, again, to predict two more unplanned storms sandwiched in between frozen mornings and blistering afternoons. Then the reporter hands us off to ten minutes of commercials. In the time it takes to sit through the department store sales and restaurant ads, an extremist group sprouts up in the Middle East, a virus is contaminating the Midwest, and half of America is experiencing a drought. Five miles later, a local community college shuts its doors, but we are assured low humidity will make for a great weekend. You reach forward to press the large black dial on the stereo. We drive in silence for a good ten minutes before I roll down my window and lean in toward the world flying by us, too fast to be fifty miles per hour. My hair plays with the wind as we let the silence erase the past half hour. We become two clueless teens driving through the back roads of New England, under a smiling sun. You smile back, and hum a tune I’d thought I had forgotten as you invite our fellow travelers in through your window. The wind plays with your hair too, and we don’t mind. It doesn’t take a fancy degree to see that we have a low of fifty, high of eighty, and a ninety percent chance of

outrunning the storm. Mark My Words

Shirtless Written by Maxwell Blanchette

ater churns around my legs as my friend moves about in the pool. His face is the only one in the room with features—set apart from the mannequins that wander the wet cement and splash lazily in the water. My torso is jealous of my calves that are cool from the damp contact and I am sweating under the cotton shirt that clings to my clammy skin. I am the only one around the water fully dressed. “When are you gonna get over this?” the friend asks me, resting his forearms on the curved lip of the pool’s edge. “It’s not something you just get over,” I tell him, not quite sure myself. His face makes no change, but his eyes move along the space behind me where cubbies are fixed to the wall and stuffed beyond the brim with bright colors. His eyes move steadily upward and a hand grasps the back of my shirt while a set of toes presses against the small of my back. I turn into my attacker, but only help her slide the shirt from my skin. It lifts away as the toes press into my tailbone and push me into the tepid bath. My limbs flail furiously as my body sinks into the water. By the time I resurface, my legs have turned to jelly and are spilling into the pool. The assailant’s chest surges rapidly with laughter as she clutches my crumpled shirt in her fist. Her mouth hangs open as roll after roll of boisterous mirth spills from her throat into the humid air. My friend laughs with her, still hanging on the edge of the pool where I should be sitting. I wrap my arms protectively around my now bare chest. My torso is no longer jealous as the hot water drums against the curve of my back and creeps up my ribcage to the faded scar I have spent a life sheltering. Sinking until my chin is just below the water,I lift an arm away from my body and grip the firm of the pool’s lip. The girl above me has thrown my property over

Mark My Words

her shoulder and smiles glibly down at me once she reclaims control of her mouth. “Something the matter?” she asks. Her voice is artificial and mine is nowhere to be found. My eyes speak for me as they latch hers and burrow holes in the pale brown lenses. “Oh this?” she probes, taking the shirt from her shoulder and fanning it in front of her as if examining it. “It’s just a plain gray shirt. I can’t imagine you’re that attached to it.” My lips frame sounds as my voice cracks into use. “It’s none of your business.” For hours we stare are each other, transfixed in a way only strangers could be. Her face holds the same stiff stance second after second and by the time I choke out an embarrassed response my entire bodyis pruned. “I have a scar,” I tell her. “On my chest.” Her brow rises as she takes the last few steps to the water and bends down in front of me with hands outstretched. My mind shouts protests as she raises my arms away from the pool’s lip and stares disapprovingly at the revealed skin. “You are a liar,” she says.I look down and tear my hand from her to dance my fingers across my unblemished chest. The small goose bumps that took over when my shirt was stripped were melting into my skin with the water’s rising heat. “But it should be right there,” I reason, “Right above my heart where I had the operation three years ago.” To my side my friend’s features contort in confusion. “What are you talking about? You’ve never had surgery.” I pull my other hand from the stranger’s grip and swing my gaze between the two in front of me. The fog of the room’s steam assaults my face and seeps into my ears and nose, mixing with my thoughts until the inside of my head is a hazy white. Around me,the water gurgles aggressively and I shift uneasily as it begins to boil.

Mark My Words

three dresses

I always wanted to wear my sister’s dresses. Even

when I didn’t quite like the pattern or the color or the cut, I still wanted to wear them. As the younger sister, I always wanted to be like Katie. I mimicked every movement as a toddler and was her own personal gnat buzzing about during the elementary school days.

Then came puberty; that painfully awkward time when not only do you want to be the cool, older sister but basically anyone but yourself. So I would stare at her packed closet and daydream about when I could fit into her floral, flouncy, bubble-draped, cotton sun dress. And boobs, oh did I want boobs! I wanted a chest big enough to keep a tube top from falling down. I wanted soft, pink cleavage to peek out of a sweetheart neckline.

When I finally got boobs… I wanted them to go away. High school was what I like to call both the “time of great thinning” and also the “age of the busty Becca.” I lost a lot of my baby fat but that fat seemed to be redirected into my chest. This was perfect for wearing dresses but not so great for jamming into a sports bra. I spent most of high school fighting between wanting to show off my teenage body in the wonderful hand-me-down dresses from my sister and also wanting to flatten my chest so that I didn’t stretch out the Abercrombie logo across my shirt. But prom dresses were the stuff of legend to young Becca and a reality for the teenage me, a very welcome reality. When I put on that sparkling, Cinderella blue mermaid dress for my senior prom I knew that I didn’t need my sister’s dresses to make me beautiful. Then came college. And well we all know what college is about. Nope, not books. Sex. Or rather sex appeal. I learned that dresses were not for being pretty, they were for being skanky. Slutty couture, as it were. I did not welcome this change but I didn’t say no to it either. I bought racy black cocktail dresses for sorority formals and open-backed, lacy numbers as well. Then came the day that a girl asked me to borrow a dress. I pulled out a few options. One of them I laid on the bed reluctantly because it was a brand new, midnight blue, long-sleeved, skin tight dress that I had just bought; naturally, it was the one she wanted to wear. I could have said no but then she said,

Mark My Words

“

this doesn’t really look like a

YOU dress.” A me dress. What did that even mean? I was mad at the comment but I didn’t let on. I just let her borrow the dress. She still hasn’t given it back and it has been two weeks. I think maybe in that moment I was small; a little girl with blossoming rose-buds beneath an undershirt staring into Katie’s closet. But what am I now?

written by

Rebecca Costanzo designed & illustrated by

Erin McCarthy

Mark My Words 11

This Too Shall Pass By Kaitlyn Derry Designed by Lucas Daigle

Trust is something that a child should expect from their parents, the ones who raised them and comforted them in every uncomfortable and frightening moment of their youth. In fact, I was always taught to be honest, act with ultimate kindness, and especially to treat others the way that I wanted to be treated (“The Golden Rule”). Well, everyone knows that life certainly doesn’t follow every ethical and moral code in existence. In fact, this story is filled with the direct antithesis of all of those morals; the ones that make you question why the universe works the way it does. I’ll begin with the instance in which my older brother, Ryan, crushed my innocent, imaginative mind by verbalizing three simple words: Santa isn’t real. A blank stare is all I could respond with. My mind raced in every tangent possible, as I thought, “Wait, what? How? Why?” Although I tried to search for any evident features on my brother’s face that would prove he was lying and could allow me to revert back to my previous childish inventiveness, I could not seem to discover a single one. I don’t think that my brother realized exactly what he had done, nor cared what effect his words had on my hopes and dreams as a young girl. Not only had he revealed the truth about Santa, but he also altered my trust for my parents, the two people in my life who had created this stem of lies about every childhood imaginative character associated with each holiday of the year. “B-b-b-butttt Santa got me a bike for Christmas!” I finally responded. Ryan immediately shut me down by saying, “Umm… I helped mom bring the bike into the house when you were sleeping… and all of your other presents.” It’s as though my brother traveled into my consciousness at that precise moment and removed that last bit of youth that I was attempting to hang onto for as long as time would allow. Moments like these were what caused me to question what life was all about and why it had to be so cruel. I’m not saying that my parents were horrible people who didn’t care for the emotional stability of their child, because I love my parents an undeniable amount. I am saying, however, that many events of my childhood were filled with a number of anxious thoughts that can be attributed to a number of different things. Santa and the Easter Bunny’s nonexistence was just one of the elements that may have led to my anxiety disorder. I have experienced it all: from the nausea, to the excessive sweating, and overwhelming sense that my heart would somehow suddenly discontinue its regular beat. This crippling and hair-pulling disorder certainly could have been caused by my parent’s constant, clearly dramatic altercations, which involved banging and excessive amounts of noise. All of which was too scarring for me.

Mark My Words

Ricocheting off the walls of my childhood home, these noises were so unpleasant, causing my mind to so often enter a fanciful, more comfortable world, rid of drunk fathers who punch holes in the walls. This world also lacked the unpleasant reek of cheap vodka as well as an assortment of other brands of liquor unknown to six-year-old me. “Stay in your room, Kaitlyn,” my mother would always say. Although much of this portion of my childhood is cloudy and questionably present within the depths of my memory, maybe it is best that I was so young during these occurrences. No child wants to categorize their father as a man with such atrocious and vicious ways, and certainly not one that involves nearly having the police on speed dial. Being a part of such a hostile environment and watching my mother endure this constant abuse, made me feel as though I had been sitting in the bright, hot sun, just waiting for my skin to turn red and bubble up until I finally just withered away. These experiences undoubtedly caused me to question my relationship with my father and whether or not I would ever come to forgive him for what he did to my mother. Yet, I have learned to understand the imperfections of human life. Also, I have sourced my anxiety back to these particular moments of my childhood. Henceforth, one could have guessed why my experiences in elementary school weren’t the most engrossing and reminiscent times of my childhood. Gripping onto the handrail of the stairs was an everyday occurrence for me. Although both my mother and corresponding teachers would always reassure me by saying the same five words You’ll be fine, I promise, I never bought it. I I know know for a fact that a part of me was fearful for the safety of my mother throughout the duration of the school day; I hoped that my father wouldn’t turn into the monster that he so often became. My brothers, two and three years older than I, didn’t let the monster get inside their heads. However, it infested my adolescent brain, preventing me from wanting to leave my mother’s side. Brains are incredible organs, constantly filling with thoughts, which certainly differ from human to human. Possessing such numerous unwanted thoughts that led to my eventual, intense, life- altering separation anxiety was not ideal for both me and my parents. It is clear to me that these events had an utterly corrosive effect on me as a human being; however, what I need to remember and derive from my imperfect childhood is that life is hard, but it will continue on and I will survive. As my brother now always tells me, This too shall pass.

” . . . l a e r t ’ n s "Santa i Mark My Words

TwoBits

By Danielle Field Designed By Ian Chouinard

A hand, tan and wrinkled with age, swoops directly in front of my face, quickly dartingbehind my ear. It journeys through waves of thick brown hair, and produces a shiny, new quarter. My brother standing next to me, and I laugh with delight at this trick, filled with wonder and amazement. Washington is practically beaming with our delight. It was incredible! We knew that it had to be magic, plain and simple. There was simply no other explanation for the mindblowing phenomenon that we had just witnessed. The quarter, sparkling with its newfound magic capabilities, disappeared as quickly as it appeared in the first place, right back into the pocket of its magician. I was six years old at the time, my brother, Garrett, only 3. The magician in question was my step grandfather. He and my grandmother, my mother’s mother, came to visit us every summer from their home in upstate New York. Just like the quarter, they seemingly appeared out of nowhere one day, and it just became fact that they would come to visit. For the week they stayed with us, Grandma Jan and Grandpa Donald resided in a mobile home situated in our backyard in the woods of New Hampshire. My brother and I were thrilled for their visits, and the chance to do things my mother would often frown upon. Excitedly, we would wake up early and sneak out of the house to go visit them before breakfast, longing to play a quick game of cards, or watch something on their tiny television set. However, this morning time was short lived before my mother realized that we had disappeared and annoyingly came to find us. During the day we would swim in our pond out back, lounging on brightly colored inflatable floaties. Or play badminton, delighting in the whacking of the birdie with our rackets as they flew towards us. At night, we all gathered around our small, wooden kitchen table, learning card games and betting all of our pennies, while simultaneously sucking on fireball candies, causing our tongues to turn red and our foreheads to profusely sweat. Everything seemed perfect. Grandma and Grandpa’s visit were the highlight of our year. However, just as quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared almost overnight. The trailer in our backyard became eerily empty, a bag of fireball candies and a pack of cards permanently fixed on the unused kitchen table. Garrett and I, seeking some sort of comfort or solace, would often sneak inside and watch television by ourselves, often wondering the same thing: Why did they stop visiting us? Where did they go?

Mark My Words

“Why did they stop visiting us?”

A year or two later we fully realized that our grandparents were not coming back as we watched the trailer be plucked from our backyard and driven away. The only thing left in its place was the grass that had been covered their for years, which had turned into a dull, sad, brown.

“Betting all of our pennies...”

Their entrance and exit into our lives was one of the first experiences I had with loss. Though one could argue that my first true experience was the loss of my identity as the only child in a family. Garrett’s intrusion into my life was certainly not an adjustment I handled well. When he was born, I was invited to sit on the bed with my mother to adore this fabulous new addition. After about two minutes of staring at him, I became bored, and decided instead to play with the buttons on the side of the bed, which of course, ended up moving the bed causing my mother’s feathers to became all ruffled. My father quickly grabbed me and placed me on the floor, forever banned from the hospital bed. I was literally plucked from my seat of power and plopped onto the floor to make room for him. To make matters worse, when he came home, he perfectly ruined the nice set-up we had going for us. Take for instance meal times. We all ate dinner at a counter, three chairs in a row. Only three. Pre-Garrett, it was perfect, picturesque even. Now, with his intrusion, my poor mother had to eat dinner on some stool in oblivion. But, I digress. Many years later, after much interrogation of my mother, the truth of my grandparents disappearance was finally uncovered. My grandmother was severely mentally ill, diagnosed with bipolar mania disorder. When she took her medication she was fine, as she often was when she came for her summertime visits. However, more often than not, she didn’t, and this caused her to engage in seriously dangerous, and worrying behavior, something of which my mother was trying to shield us from. A year after the quarter trick, my mother received a long distance call from Canada. On the other end of the line was a nurse from the psychiatric ward of a hospital, asking her to come pick up her mother, who only hours earlier, had been found naked in the parking lot of a motel, rubbing bottle caps together to try to communicate with aliens. And yes, you read that right. Aliens. Apart from having no clothes, she also had no forms of identification, and no one seemed to know how she got over the border in the first place. My mother asked the nurse if she could speak with her mother, and after only about ten minutes, banned my grandmother from coming to her house ever again and only limited communication with her children (i.e. birthday cards). And thus, the mystery of my grandparents disappearance, was solved. Yet, the impression made after the fact has resonated with me to this day. is My grandparents, my brother, the quarter, they all popped up unexpectedly, seemingly out of thin air. And with their arrival came joy, fun, laughter, and perhaps a bit of resentment. However,

“Try to communicate with aliens.”

a balance had to be restored in my life, and so there was also loss. The quarter vanished into a pocket, my grandparents disappeared, and my life as an only child ceased. All things must come to an end, as this is the necessary ebb and flow of life. These changes, however uncomfortable, or even painful, propel life forward, and just as before, we are faced again with a new game of give and take day. Now you see it, now you don’t.

Mark My Words

Written by Mylynda Gill Designed by Grace Lemieux

When I find myself inside your head, I am surprised to be standing in a lavender field, and I become overwhelmed with the lavender’s relaxing scent that hangs heavy in the air. I run to escape the sleep that begins to weigh down on me. Then before me, a great oak door with a giant brass knob swings open and I stumble through and start to fall like Alice in Wonderland down the rabbit’s hole. Pictures of your life pass me by; there is a picture of you with your high school sweetheart at prom, and there is a another picture of you and me and my sisters in the lavender fields of England just like the lavender field that I had just escaped, and there is another picture of you not two weeks ago on the couch with all of your girls watching New Girl, your favorite show, and laughing at Jess and Nick’s awkward relationship.

Mark My Words

As the last picture of your skull, white skin, and darkened eyes disappears into darkness above me, I begin to wonder if I will ever find what I came for but then with a thump, I find myself sprawled on a couch from years back, the one with the big red roses and the green paint spattered on the arm. I sit up and view before me two giant, round windows with their black velvet circular shades drawn. I stand and look above me and find the prize I have come to collect. Two large greyish green muffins covered with tiny spikes hang in air above my head growing ever so slowly, invading the space around them, knocking over your pictures and tearing away at the curtains. I look around for a way to collect the intruders that are too high for my reach. Along the back wall are bookshelves burdened heavy with books, magazines, movies, and CDs. Grabbing the heaviest of the books, which weigh about the same as our cats, I stand on the hideous couch, allowing them to take flight through the air like birds preying on the ever-growing intruders. Thud, one is down, landing in front of the curtains blocking the windows as the spikes keep growing and move towards me. I take aim again and then thunk, down goes the one on the other end of the couch, rocketing me into the air and slamming me into the bookcase, sending me and several movies sprawling onto the floor. Shakily getting to my feet as the revolting smell of death, decay, and moldy muffins penetrates my nasal passages, I gasp for breath and grit my teeth in a smile to stop my stomach from rebelling. Grabbing a spike on each muffin, closing my eyes, and muttering a silent prayer, I let out the loudest scream, screech, and holler that my lungs can allow for release from your mind. I feel the wind spin around me and I am jolted into the air and then I feel my feet pressed firmly against solid ground once more. I open my eyes and there you lie before me on the hospital bed. In one hand I hold the two brain tumors that had been taking over your brain, mind, and you. I throw them with disgust into the trash as your eyes begin to flutter open for the first time in days. You open your eyes, fully dazed, and look at me. “Your muffins are gone, mom,” I tell her as I sit at the edge of the hospital bed, “I took care of them, just like I promised.”

MarkMy MyWords Words Mark

17 xx

HELD BACK WRITTEN BY ALYSON JONES DESIGNED BY CASSANDRA BARON

Mark My Words

“Third graders, line up for music, and fourth graders, get your cursive books out,” one of my teachers called in her calm yet raspy voice. Then, singling me out from what seemed to be the entire world, she yelled to get my attention: “Alyson, can you please come up here?” As I nodded my innocent head back and forth, I swung my short legs over the brown wooden bench on which I was sitting. One after another my legs walked as though I was pulling weights behindme. I had never been called to the front of the class like this, what was going on? Was I in trouble? Did something happen? Thoughts scattered throughout my head, faster than I could accept them.

Newfane Elementary was small compared to other schools in the world, (educating a maximum of 104 students at the most during my eight years there) yet the largest one in the school district. The school consisted of one kindergarten class, two classrooms with both first and second graders, one classroom, (which I was in) of third and fourth graders (with two teachers in it) and two of mixed fifth and sixth graders. It never did make sense to me why there wasn’t a classroom for each grade instead of having them mixed, but that’s just how it was. Located in a neighborhood with no gas station, one convenience store, two post offices (one for South Newfane and one for Newfane) and no recreational activities closer than a half hour away, there was not much to do outside of school. I reached the matching torn red chairs where my teachers, Mrs. Wells and Mr. Parker, were sitting. “Sit down,” Mrs. Wells said, as she pointed her finger towards a plastic chair, decorated in pencil graffiti, and grey duct tape holding the left arm in place. Right then and there I knew this wasn’t going to be good. What had I done wrong? What happened? Then my mind went blank. My teachers began to talk, but the words which spilled from their mouths roamed the air instead of floating into my ears, until I felt as though something had hit me; it was the words which had been spoken, they actually meant something. Then I started listening closely. In a voice which seemed as though it had pity, Mrs. Wells said, “You will be going to music with the third graders from now on.” I wasn’t exactly sure what this meant, besides maybe I was really that bad at singing, but then I knew this was elementary school music class; it really didn’t matter that much, and plus, I

was getting really good (to my standards) at playing the recorder. As the thoughts swam around in my head, I spoke without thinking and asked, “What do you mean?” After what felt like minutes later, I finally got the answer. It was much worse than I could ever expect. “You are being held back in third grade, Alyson,” Mr. Parker admitted. My body stopped, I knew this had to be a nightmare, but it wasn’t. Without further questions I proceeded to the line which the third graders had formed, instead of practicing my cursive like the rest of the fourth graders.

“Right then and there, I knew this wasnt going to be good. What had I done wrong? What happened?”

The rest of the day, two more hours, which felt like days, became a blur, I couldn’t concentrate without the painful words of my teachers repeating in my innocent mind. At first I wanted to tell my best friend, but then I knew I couldn’t, because I was afraid everyone would know. All I wanted was to be embraced in my parents’ arms while my emotions poured out, hoping that it would cure my heartbroken feelings.

My mother was running later than usual to pick me up that day. Seconds went by, they felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours. As the time passed, I was becoming even weaker at holding my emotions back. When my mom arrived, I hugged her as hard as I could, while the endless number of tears drained from my eyes. Slowly my mom grasped my face and looked into my glazy eyes and said, “What is the matter?” in a voice expressing sorrow. When I told her the story, she looked as surprised as I did during the painful moment I found out. At this time she became the world’s best hugger. She hugged me with pity and carried me out to the car, repeating the three words, “I am so sorry.” When arriving home, my mom explained to my father what had happened. They both became shocked by the fact that they were not told that I would be held back. Yes, it had been an idea when I was in second grade, but my parents did not know there had been a final decision. My tears continued to stream from my saddened eyes while lying on my parents’ oversized bed, and my mom dialed Mrs. Wells’ number to clarify what happened. All I can remember from that phone call was anger and disappointment in my mom’s voice when she was explaining how wrong it was to tell me in front of the entire class, let alone telling me without my parents knowing. When my mom hung up the phone, she said, “Well Honey, I have good news for you!” in a cheerful voice she used whenever one of her children was upset. “Mrs. Wells and I have talked and she said that you are really in grade 3 ½.” Looking at her with complete confusion and disbelief, she knew I was not buying it. “Honey, this makes you really special.

Mark My Words

You are going to be the only student in the entire school that has ever been in the grade 3 ½.” Not knowing exactly what this meant, I just went along with it. Later I found out that it meant for extras, such as PE, music and art, I would be a fourth grader, and for academics I would be a third grader. However, if any student was going to stay back, Mrs. Wells and Mr. Parker’s class was when it was going to happen. It seemed as though each year, at least one student stayed back in fourth grade. And one thing was for sure, there certainly was not anyone in the past whom entered grade 3 ½. At this point in my life, I thought my life was over. The group of friends I had started elementary school with would be in fourth grade, and would see me as a stupid loser, and I would be older than the third graders, so they would be afraid of me. Yes, my life was over, I really was convinced. I would now live a lonely life with no friends and who knows, maybe my parents would love my other sisters more because they were smarter, or maybe even disown me? Well, okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but at the time, I thought it was. My biggest fear was my friends. Would they all hate me because I was stupid? When telling my friends what happened, I remember them seeming confused, and slightly excited since most of my friends

Mark My Words

friends would move into a new classroom, and I would be left, with the third graders, in hopes that one of them would soon find out they too would be in grade 3 ½, so they could suffer like I did. However, instead of an awful year, fourth grade came with a surprise. were in the third grade (the classroom was combined 3rd and 4th grade). I specifically remember my friend Callie telling me that “we could be best friends now, since you don’t graduate a year before me.” Although there were some things about school that I did enjoy, such as making copies for my teachers, and going to art class, at the time it seemed like they had all washed away. All of a sudden, seeing my friends, and realizing that the y were now a grade higher than me, kno wing the teachers thought I was dumb, and using the photocopier, were no longer exciting me. Disclaimer: I used to tell myself that I was going to become a teacher just so I could get to us the photocopier whenever I wanted, and I am now in college, to become a teacher. FYI this is not why I want to be a teacher now. When looking back now, there is not a thing I would change about the decision that my teachers made for me. I remember my mom telling me as I lay on my parents bed the day I got the news: “just think, everything happens for a reason, and you don’t want to stay back in high school when the big kids pick on you, do you?” And she was right, except that she made it sound as though there were big bullies in the high school, whom I never encountered when I eventually got there. No, I did not want to stay back in high school, but at the time, I did not want to stay back in third grade, either. Finally, as the year of hell came to an end, I knew the next year would be even worse. My fourth grade

When I was younger, my sisters always tried telling me that I was adopted, or that they found me under the rocks in Maine, where we vacationed every year. But once I was old enough to realize the similarities between my parents and I (especially the physical appearance my dad and I share), I knew there was no way that it was true. Although there are many similarities between my parents and I, such as my looks, which I inherited directly from my father, and my craftiness which I got from my mother, there are also some horizontal identities, which have left questions unanswered and people wondering where I got them from. While growing up, both of my parents enjoyed school, as much as they could. When meeting in high school, my father became lazy decided not to do his work. He did this, not because he didn’t know how, or because he didn’t want to, but because my mom would do it for him. When I entered elementary school, I faced what my father faced in high school, except I had nobody to do my homework for me. I wanted to, but couldn’t, and I just didn’t know how. No matter how hard I tried to avoid it, it seemed as though I had a learning disability, but even my parents tried to hide it. To encourage me to read, we would sit down every night, before falling

asleep and take turns reading pages. However, this did not help. At school, and now at home, I felt separated from my family, because I was at the age where I should have known how to read, but I couldn’t. Neither of my sisters nor parents had experienced this difficulty and I was embarrassed by it. As the teachers decided to keep me back a year, to give me an extra year to learn, it made me feel even less accepted into my family. Although I truly knew that my parents loved me even though they never experienced this, and this made me different from them, I was able to overcome this. Eventually after the extra year of third grade, and help from the school’s reading specialist, I was nearly reading at the correct age level, yet I was still embarrassed about the past. This, however, is a trait that I hope my children one day will not receive. Having this difficulty in my life was not only difficult for me, but for

my parents, as they had to encourage me that one day, I would in fact be able to read. Letter...Special... I remember the reading test I was given in my second year of third grade. I sat in a yellow plastic chair that restricted my legs from touching the floor. A flip book was placed in front of me and I was assured by my reading teacher that “Every third grader is going to take this test.” But I knew that wasn’t true. I never saw any of my classmates with Mr. Deo taking that test, and none of them ever talked about it. However, what I do remember is that is when I finally felt as though I could read. As I read the words and pointed out what rhymed and what were opposites my teacher seemed surprised for the first time. Not telling me whether each answer was correct or if it was wrong, but instead by her eyebrows scrunching further up on her face, I knew I had to have been doing really well or really poorly. However, I spe-

cifically remember my mom getting the test results in the mail, as they would come with my progress reports each trimester, and she was surprised to see how dramatically my reading ability had increased. This is when they discovered that one reason why I was not a strong reader was because I could not see the words or follow line to line because my eyes were so bad. Not only had my teachers assumed that I was a bad reader and just did not know how to do it, but the school nurse who did a routine eye check every year told me I could see fine. That was until I went to the real eye doctor and they said that my eyes were so bad that I was not about to end a line then move my eyes to the next line without skipping a line. This is when I knew it was not all my fault that my teachers thought I was stupid.

Mark My Words

Lessons from the kitchen Written by Julia Lagace Designed by Grace Lemieux

7 years before Dinner Menu: Roast Beef & Fresh Vegetables

Mark My Words

I walk in from school and smell the intoxicating aroma of garlic. I inhale deeply before yelling, “Gram, I’m home!” It must be Friday, because we are having a larger meal. Not that any of my grandmother’s meals were ever lacking or that any of them could be considered anything but grand. My parents trail in behind me, commenting to each other that something smells good. I follow my gram eagerly around the kitchen, absorbing the swift motions of her hands as she cuts the roast up and garnishes it, telling her about my A- in art class. Looking over at me with amusement, my grandmother replied, “Julia, don’t cry over spilled milk.” At dinner, she spilled a few peas on the floor, and we all laughed as she made mildly inappropriate jokes.

Slamming the door, I call out, “Gram, I’m home.” I barely pause to take in the decadent scent of chicken, wine, and mushrooms as I stride to the kitchen. She stands barely five feet tall but hovers over the stove with the practiced hand of master magician. “Gram, no one likes me, because I still try hard in school and answer the questions the teacher asks.” Reaching for a wooden spoon, she stirs the potatoes, carefully watching so they do not boil over. Her grimace does little to reassure me, but she takes ahold of my hand and responds, “Julia, be a leader, not a follower.” Over dinner, she recounts a story of her on and off again boyfriend and his insistent urging for her to drop everything and move down to New Orleans with him.

3 years before Dinner Menu: Coq au Vin & Mashed Potatoes

Mark My Words

III 1 year before Dinner Menu: Clam Chowder

Mark My Words

As I open the door, I can practically taste the delicious chowder on the stovetop. “Gram, I’m home,” I call out, hearing no sound in the downstairs. I make my way up the stairs towards her room, repeating myself so as not to surprise her. Upon entering her room, I find her going through her extensive perfume collection, putting some into boxes and some back on to her dresser. The oxygen tank is the only thing different to me from my earliest memory of her. I ask what she is doing, and she replies, “I want you to have this,” extending her bottle of Chanel No. 5 from Paris that her mother and sister gave to her. Protesting, I tell her to keep it, but she tells me, “Keep it, the smell of all of the perfumes is bothering me. Just remember to hold on to what is important.” Over dinner, my grandmother takes out the only picture she has of her father and some of her mother, telling us stories of their antics and misadventures.

Slamming the door, I call out, “Gram, I’m home.” I barely pause to take in the decadent scent of chicken, wine, and mushrooms as I stride to the kitchen. She stands barely five feet tall but hovers 1 day before over the stove with the practiced hand of Dinner Menu: master magician. “Gram, no one likes Takeout me, because I still try hard in school and answer the questions the teacher asks.” Reaching for a wooden spoon, she stirs the potatoes, carefully watching so they do not boil over. Her grimace does little to reassure me, but she takes ahold of my hand and responds, “Julia, be a leader, not a follower.” Over dinner, she recounts a story of her on and off again boyfriend and his insistent urging for her to drop everything and move down to New Orleans with him.

Mark My Words

The day Dinner Menu:

Mark My Words

Not having left the table for hours, I replay the morningâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s events in my head over and over, sometimes sobbing and other times sitting catatonic. At some point, someone comes by and tells me to eat, but the very thought of food makes me ill. I wish I could share one more meal with her, hear one more wise phrase or one more story. I settle by telling myself nothing will ever be the same again.

I am finally starting to taste food again. The flavors are not as vivid as they used to be, even when I follow her recipes perfectly. We ate dinner at the table and made it without one of us breaking down into tears. I’m grateful to be gone to college and don’t have to face the suddenly empty feeling house every day. I feel guilty for leaving my parents alone, but I know that I cannot stop living my life. My mother has worked so diligently to copy my grandmother’s famous recipe, and I commend her on her efforts. As we wind down, I take my parents’ hands and tell them that we will be okay. Weeks later, I will make the decision to leave Mount Holyoke for unrelated reasons and enroll at Keene State and together, we begin to grow and live again.

One year later Dinner Menu: Chicken Fricassee and rice.

Mark My Words

A Walk In The Sn w By Jordan Lemerise Designed by Lucas Daigle

The snow was falling perfectly that day. Big juicy flakes that got stuck on your eyelashes and made a soft compact crunch as you walked. Snowball making snow. It made me think of that perfect snowy night in Poland, great company, great game, great food and beer, I was so lucky to be in a place so beautiful for an entire semester. That night especially, it felt like I was staring in a movie, I couldn’t help but break out into a snowball fight in the streets because only in a movie do you see that happen. I started forming a snowball from a road blocker while Johanna looked at me disgusted. Romi and Alex were a few steps ahead, while Mike, Erik, and Chloe trailed behind. It was the perfect snow for snowballs. I raised my arm and released the snowball into the air, nailing Romi in the back, giggling uncontrollably. He spun around with a glimmer in his eye and said, “You shouldn’t have done that.” Just like that we were all in a movie, throwing snowballs at each other left and right, not knowing who we were hitting or who was hitting us. Romi and Alex took off down the middle of the street and Chloe and I followed with a snowball for each of them. Mike walked slowly behind us all, laughing like a parent would at their kids having so much fun they don’t even realize the scene they’re causing. We laughed and threw snowballs at each other in the middle of the street in Kraków, just like in a movie. It really was one of the most perfect nights I thought only movies could produce.

Mark My Words

Albea snapped me back into reality when he asked if I wanted to get a Chai tea, so I nodded and looped my arm through his as we walked up the three little stairs to the Met. I told him I was thinking about how much I love the snow and about the snowball fight I had in Poland. He thinks I’m like Lorelai Gilmore when it comes to snow, we just have a connection, me and snow. I started telling him about my seventh birthday party (probably for the four thousandth time because we have been together for six years, but for some reason he still lets me tell him stories over and over again), the snow was perfect just like today but I didn’t get to enjoy any of it. I missed the tubing part of my tubing birthday party because my sock slipped on the floor and I broke my arm. Backstreet Boys was blasting through the stereo in the living room where all my friends were awkwardly dancing and having a cartwheel contest. The contest was to see who could do the best and coolest cartwheel and since I was the birthday girl, obviously I would win. Dance-walking my way from the kitchen to the living room my friends scream and call me over to the stretch of hardwood flooring that connects the new addition living room to the tv room. “Jordan’s turn!” I confidently walk to the front of the lineup and decide to give them my best from the get-go. My left hand makes contact with the cool wood as I keep my right arm pulled tightly into my chest.

A one hander will beat all of theirs, I thought to myself as my right foot carved through the negative space in the air. As I continued the arch, my left foot slipped out from under me and I heard a crack like when we’re making a bonfire and have to break some of the sticks in half. I opened my eyes, which were now level to the hardwood, and knew my arm was broken. Albea laughed when I said I knew my arm was broken and yet my parents didn’t believe me and let me cry and sit in pain for hours. I was, and sometimes maybe still can be, a little overdramatic, but I did hear the crack and just because I was seven didn’t mean I didn’t know a broken bone when I heard one. Albea just laughed again when I told him this and shook his head saying “It’s a good thing you’re cute”. I laughed and countered his remark with, “It’s a good thing YOU’RE cute! Remember the time after we just started dating and I was trying to get your mum to like me and you made me put on your catchers gear!” “Hey, I have an idea. Come here.” I slowly walked towards Albea glaring at his mischievous smiling face. He had already taken off his catching mask and dropped it to the ground and started unclipping the rest of his gear from his body. He told me to start putting the equipment on so I grabbed the right leg and tried to figure out how to attach it to my own right leg. As I worked on the leg, Albea buckled up my left leg and then pushed my hands aside to finish up the right. He put the chest gear over my head and adjusted it to fit more snug around my petite body. He handed me the helmet and I cautiously placed it on my head, careful not to mess up my hair too much (we were still in the first phase of dating!). He grabbed my hand then and started pulling me into the house, which took longer than usual because the equipment was twice my size and maneuvering my legs around to get up the stairs was a quest in itself. Albea brought me into the kitchen where his mum was cleaning and with a snigger he said, “Look mom! You always told me to use protection!”

“One of my favorite memories,” Albea said as he pinched the side of my cheek. I remembered how grateful I was to be wearing a catchers helmet at that time because my face was redder than a fully cooked lobster and if I were a cartoon there would have definitely been steam blowing out of my ears and eyes bulging out of my face. I was so embarrassed, but his mum just laughed (really hard I might ad) and came over to give me a hug. I remember thinking how it was definitely a good thing Albea did that to his mum and not mine, but also how I felt that his mum really did like me and I could stop trying so hard and being embarrassed over silly things like that. Especially because I thought it was hilarious and it’s definitely one of my most favorite first memories of us as well. He took my empty mug and asked if I was ready to brave the snow again so I just gave him my goofy smile and walked down the staircase to the front door.

Mark My Words

the

big blue house

The house looks almost purple in the sunset. It’s bigger than I could have ever imagined, even after driving by it every day to go back to our little apartment where we waited for the house to be made ready for us to move in. My sister is bravely pushing a wooden swing to new limits. It hangs from an old, towering Locust tree in the center of the yard. Everything is green except these gnarled trees in the center, which are clearly dying. It seems impossible that this is our new home, I can only reach the first couple of clapboards up on the sides it’s so tall. I won’t miss the apartment. Our neighbors yell at my mom for letting us bicycle around the kitchen. I won’t miss that either. Here there’s a long driveway to bike up and down, and soft grass to pedal through. In that tiny apartment kitchen we had to do tight loops around the island counter, careful to avoid my mom cooking at the stove, and bumping elbows and toes off cupboards.

Mark My Words

I’m too excited to feel any kind of regret. All my toys and family are coming with me. Memories aren’t important. This house is my life; we’ve been waiting for months for this moment. In just a week I’ll be four and starting kindergarten at the local school-- everything looks big and new, smelling of late summer air. A few months later my mom and I sit at the white kitchenette table on stools in our new kitchen. A porcelain lamp painted with flowers keeps us company, the light strangely muted by a dark blue shade. In front of us are plates of peanut butter sandwiches cut in half and Wise potato chips. It is our ritual before she brings me to my afternoon kindergarten session. She has peanut butter only, but I have jelly in my sandwich. I take a bite of the sweet sandwich, then a bite of the salty chips. I face the teapot clock on the wall because Mom has told me that when the long hand gets to the hat on the three, we’ll have to leave for school. I watch her pick up potato chip crumbs with her fingertip, transfixed by her perfection. We spent all morning in the den, she at the writing desk with her little blue check book in one hand and a stack of envelopes in front of her. I played unicorn family on the nearby futon. The mom was really just a horse, but she was a beautiful lavender color with a silver mane which made her magical enough for me, and the baby was a plush rainbow unicorn, so I told my mom that only male unicorns had horns and she nodded sagely before returning to her accounting book. It wasn’t until the sun no longer came in through the eastern windows of the house that I’d run all my toys upstairs to my bedroom with the heart cut out of the door and come down for lunch. The house got old. First the landscapers came to remove the locust trees from the yard; they were making me sick, and poisoning the lawn, threatening to come crashing down on the house at every storm. Then the house got re-sided, in sage green.

Our big blue house wasn’t even blue anymore, and the immaculate gardens my mom had weeded and mulched everyday in the spring slowly turned back into lawn, until my dad unearthed their brick borders and began mowing right over them. The deck railing rotted and the paint on the doors began to chip and nothing ever got fixed. I came to hate our house, because it was no longer our house. My parents hate each other, my sister won’t come near the place, and I can no longer see the happiness in the teapot clock and my heart-cut playroom door that now houses an empty bedroom. It’s been twenty years of letting this poor house down, neglecting it, and now they’re going to tear it down. In three months they’ll pave over our house for parking lots the nearby college needs. Now I feel the regret. This house never deserved a family like us; it came to us new with so much promise and life, but we destroyed it.

It will never see happiness again. I imagine what it will look like when they tear it down, and wonder if some of the pieces that fall will be covered with

blue paint written by

Jocelyn Lovering designed & illustrated by

Erin McCarthy Mark My Words

Gone Fishinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; By Sam Magee Designed By Ian Chouinard

Mark My Words

“Sammy, there’s a cold front coming in. Should be good fishing tonight,” my dad tells me as he hooks the boat up to his sky blue Oldsmobile. The late summer evening air is chilly against my skin as we stand in the driveway. The leaves on the trees are beginning to lose their vibrant green as they prepare to give way to the warm colors of the autumn. I hear the click of the screen door opening and look to see my mom emerging from our brick red ranch house carrying a cooler full of water bottles for my dad and me to take fishing. I watch as he expertly maneuvers the boat onto the hitch. Tonight is just the two of us--my sister is staying at a friend’s house and my mom is tired.

I can’t wait to get on the water. A cold breeze raises the hairs on my arm and I run inside to get a sweatshirt. The smell of pot roast still fills the house from dinner. As I look at the mound of clothes on the floor of my bedroom I reach for my Red Sox hoodie, to match my father’s. I run back to the driveway and scramble into the backseat of the car, my small body taking up very little space. The other side of the seat is folded down in order to accommodate our fishing poles.

Mark My Words

I breathe deeply, taking in the scent of his car that is unexplainably and uniquely him. In here, I am wrapped in a blanket of safety. I roll down my window and tilt my face to the breeze as I inhale the fresh air. The wind whips through my ponytail and gusts past my ear and drowns out “Simple Man” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, crackling out of the aged speakers. I lean forward and chatter to my dad about school and TV and whatever else happens to pop into my mind. He turns down the radio so he can hear every word. We pass the new town post office and a dilapidated day care that will soon be torn down to become yet another gas station. A minute later we pass the enormous campus that is Derry’s public high school. It feels as if those years are a lifetime away. We reach the rotary in the center of town and excitement takes over because we are so close. I strain against the confines of the seat belt tucked under my arm instead of across my chest because that’s how he wears it. I stare out the windshield at the busy rotary, cars entering from all directions. One exit leads to my elementary school, another to the church that helped to raise and shape me, another leads to the local restaurant that will later be the site of my first job. I remember thinking this: that the rotary could lead to anywhere. He takes the third exit that leads to the tiny lake that once felt massive.

“Daddy, I bet I’m gonna catch more fish than you,” “Okay Sammy, whatever you say,” “I will! I’m gonna catch a hundred!” He glances at me in the rear view mirror and smiles making his eyes crinkle. I stick my tongue out at him and then smile back with my two front teeth missing.

Mark My Words

We finally turn onto the road that leads to Beaver Lake, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. He backs the boat down to the dock with no hesitation. As soon as the shift hits park I jump out of the car. I watch my dad in his paint stained faded jeans and navy blue Red Sox sweat shirt as he unhitches the battered, teal boat from the trailer and guides it into the greenish brown water. He asks me to hold the rope to keep the boat in place while he parks the car. I hold the rope tightly, taking my responsibility seriously, but he knows the boat will not drift in these calm waters. I stand ankle deep with my jeans rolled up above the surface, the water chilly on my bare feet. The tiny waves from the slight breeze slap against the slimy rocks around me. Minnows dart inches away from my toes, their bodies obscured by the clouds of sand that I have stirred up. The rope is wrapped around my fingers so tightly the tips begin to turn an angry red. I bend down and grab a flat rock about the size of my small palm. I try to skip it along the water’s surface like he taught me, but it just lands in the water with a “plop” and sends out ripples. He returns to the dock, never leaving my line of vision, and helps me into the boat. He rows out a bit to get out of the shallow waters before starting the small motor. He motions me forward as he steers and tells me to grab the handle of the motor to drive the boat for a while. He explains to me how to turn and how to go faster. When I make the little boat go as fast as it can, always reckless, he chuckles. Mist jumps up from the water as we cut through it and dusts our skin. I hand back the motor control and go sit on the gray, tattered seat. He cuts the motor and drops the anchor. He grabs my fishing pole from the floor of the boat and I anxiously wait as he puts the worm on my hook. I breathe in deeply and the scent of the lake fills my lungs along with the scent of moss and dirt from the floor of the old boat. My dad hands me my fishing pole and I castout immediately.

Mark My Words

“Good cast, Sammy!” he tells me as he sets up his own poles. His fingers work the thin fishing line with ease. I watch his hands with fascination as he attaches a weight and a lure like an expert as he prepares to cast out. I smile at him. After my hook has been in the water for less than a minute I reel it in. My little hands are clumsy with the reel and keep slipping off, but eventually I get my hook back in the boat.

“Sammy, you gotta let it sit out there for a bit. Let the fish see it. Just be patient,” I cannot grasp the concept of doing anything that does not provide instant gratification, but I listen and on my next cast manage to let it sit in the water for about three minutes. My dad laughs at my impatience as he sits there with his pole in the water for what seems like hours. The tip of his pole shakes and he pulls up, but is too late and the biting fish gets away.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Five minutes later the same thing happens to me. “Shit,” I mutter. My dad looks at me out the corner of his eye and laughs. “Don’t tell your mother I let you swear out here.” I nod back and mutter a few more swear words over the course of the evening because I love to see him smile. As we spend more time out there in silence or in conversation, I let my line sit in the water for longer and longer periods of time. The tip of my pole wiggles and I tug up. I feel the hook sink into the lip of the fish and can feel it fighting on the other end. My dad abandons his pole in order to help me reel in my fish.

Mark My Words

“Point the tip towards the sky. That’s it. Just keep reeling it in. Good job!” The fish is now at the edge of the boat and my dad scoops it up with a net. “Wow, look at that,” he removes the hook from the fishes lip and holds it up. “That’s a large mouth bass, and a good sized one too! Give it a kiss,” He holds the fish out towards me and I recoil from the fishy scent and wrinkle my nose in disgust. He smiles and gives it a kiss on its slimy head. I laugh, and then he releases the fish.

“See Sammy, all it takes is a little patience and they come right to ya. That was a great catch!” I feel elated at the pride that is displayed on his face.

“Feels like a good way to end the night.” The sun is low in the sky, the clouds around it burning a furious pink that reflects beautifully in the ripples of the water. As he motors us back in I begin to drift off, exhausted from the excitement. From the hours that built days that I spent on that ragged boat I learned that patience creates opportunity, but skill provides results. We get back to the dock and he hooks up the boat. I climb back into the Oldsmobile on its last leg of life and buckle myself in. The warmth of the car makes me realize how cold I’d been on the boat. I feel as though my limbs are thawing out. I fall asleep on the way home, but wake up as we pull into the driveway. I keep my eyes closed so he’ll think I’m still sleeping and carry me inside. He lifts me from the seat and my head rests on his shoulder, breathing his scent which smells like safety.

Mark My Words

aforrecompense precipitation written by katherine marinoff

illustrated & designed by danny cobbs As long as I can remember, we’ve kept a bucket of change to save for a rainy day. Pennies found in parking lots, quarters that were returned but never retrieved from payphones, and dimes left in pants pockets to be ultimately discarded into washing machines— they all went into the rainy day fund. We saved up all of our spare change in exchange for the sky’s gift of hydration. The same water that fell on the dinosaurs is still coming down from the sky, forming puddles or adding to lakes and rivers and oceans— evaporation, condensation, and repeat. The tears of the world are a constant quantity*. The average hailstorm lasts about six minutes. That’s the same amount of time it takes to listen to “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which you could play on a jukebox in a pizza place in my town for twenty-five cents until one day I went into the pizza place and the jukebox was gone. If a strong enough wind came along, could someone harness it with an umbrella à la Mary Poppins? One day we filled up our rainy day fund bucket, so we took it to the bank. At the summer camp where I work, we always try to keep things positive— even the rain, or “liquid sunshine,” as we call it. If you really want a snow day, here’s what you do: put ice cubes in your toilet, wear your pajamas backwards, keep your alarm on (but it’s okay because hoepfully your mom will shut it off for you in the morning), place a plastic spoon under your pillow, finish all your homework, and shout “snow day!” into the freezer. Worms get flooded out of their holes and washed up onto sidewalks when it rains. They can’t do anything once they’re up there, and that’s why the concrete is always covered with their pink, waterlogged bodies after a storm. The French idiom for love at first sight is coup de foudre, bolt of lightning. Each time lightning strikes, it’s an intimate moment between the sky and the earth. We dumped out all of our copper and silver coins in one of those machines that counts up your change; it sounded like metallic raindrops on asphalt. This one time on a family vacation to the coast, we got stuck in a Nor’easter. There was so much wind and rain— I thought that this was the end, our last rainy day. I was so scared I puked on the rental house’s couch. When I was in elementary school, my friends and I used to do rain dances on the playground. We would run in circles and throw our hands to the sky, beseeching the clouds for just a few drops. Jupiter’s great red spot is a giant, perpetual, penny-colored hurricane. I would probably puke if I found myself stuck in that. According to Danish tradition, the weather on your birthday reflects your behavior for the year. It always rains on my birthday. One year it hailed. The machine spit out a ticket telling us how much our coins were worth. A $306.11 compensation for rainy days to come.

*from waiting for godot by samuel beckett

Mark My Words

SCOTT

& DESIGNED

ILLUSTRATED

WRITTEN

LITTLE

JOKES ABOUT CANCER STEERE DANNY

COBBS

The bell rings and all the students rush through the

“Really?” He answers in shock, immediately putting his

hallways to get on the school bus. Once I’m on the bus

hand to his face.

I immediately venture toward the back seats because

I playfully push his hand; that was the dumbness of the

that’s where my friends always seem to sit.

joke, there really wasn’t a punch line, just a ha-ha you

There is a first grade boy who is also sitting back here.

fell for it, push. But suddenlhy I hear a scream of terror.

Usually the first graders stay at the front of the bus—

Tucker’s nose is gushing blood. What have I done?

I’m not sure why. I didn’t sit in the back when I was in the first grade— but I’m in the second grade now— and that’s a big difference. He sits there quietly with

Oh, no. The joke isn’t supposed to go like that! You’re

a smile, and he takes the seat across from me almost

supposed to laugh or not laugh but you’re not supposed

instantly. I remember I’ve met this boy, Tucker, during

to get a nosebleed! I instantly know that I am going to

a game of tag on the playground. Suddenly I also get

get in trouble for this.

very excited. “Hi Tucker! I didn’t know you were

I sit there in guilty silence as Tucker runs to the front

on my bus.”

of the bus; all the kids stare at me as though I am a

We start bantering back and forth, about Pokémon

villain. I didn’t mean to! Some of the older boys laugh

cards and our favorite cartoons. We tell each other

at both of our misfortunes while I bend my head in

the most cunning jokes we could ever conceive. It’s

guilt and self-pity.

a grand time... until I think of a really odd joke that

Maybe that’s why first graders don’t sit in the back of

someone had played on me the day before.

the bus, I think.

“Did you know that if your hand is the size of your face, you have cancer?” He looks at me, astonished, as though I know some type of black magic.

“You punched me!” Tucker shrieks. “I’m telling on you!”

Mark My Words