The Phoenix by Pfeiffer Phoenix

The Phoenix

Spring 2013

Cover Logo Designed By Jamie Alcala

ÂŠ The Phoenix 2013 Reproduction of any material within this publication is prohibited without consent of the artist or author of that particular work. 2

The Phoenix Pfeiffer University Misenheimer, North Carolina

Letter From The Advisor Once again, I have the opportunity to applaud the editorial and support staffs of ‚The Phoenix.‛ They faced a particularly challenging situation in the Spring Semester of the 201213 year when their website and e-mails were hacked and taken down, attached services were cancelled, and submissions held within the e-mail deleted. It was a vindictive act, troubling beyond its criminal implications, because it destroyed the imaginative efforts of a number of students. The staff was deeply saddened that someone would choose to launch this kind of anonymous attack, but took comfort in realizing that sympathy rather than accusation was the better approach as an action of this type arises from emotional and intellectual instability on the perpetrator’s part. In response to the issues that resulted from the attack, the staff chose to work harder, longer, and more creatively to recreate the magazine’s presence. And they have succeeded. I congratulate them! Sylvia Hoffmire, Advisor to ‚The Phoenix‛

Letter From The Editor The Phoenix has experienced a huge stumbling block this semester. After being hacked, the staff, the editors, and the advisor took a step back to analyze what we could do to make The Phoenix better. With input from the staff, our Photography and Visual Arts Editor, Jamie Alcala, created a new logo for the Phoenix. The goal of The Phoenix has always been to encourage the students of Pfeiffer University and the members of the community to create works of art through short stories, poetry, and visual art. This semester the staff decided to bring this goal to the forefront of The Phoenix and Pfeiffer University. Our new logo encourages everyone to create, celebrate, and express themselves in some creative form. Acting as Editor in Chief for the past two years has taught me so much about the publishing world. I have developed a passion for creating something that people can enjoy. The Phoenix is a gift to those who wish to pursue writing, or art. It is even a gift for those who simply enjoy reading. I hope that The Phoenix continues to prosper. I also hope that future editors never forget the words of the very first Editor of The Phoenix, Bill Latham, who said, ‚If the creative spirit which prevails in the Pfeiffer Phoenix continues to spur its contributors until at least one achieves recognition in creative arts, the publication of this booklet will have served its purpose.‛ Thank you Pfeiffer for four great years here. Thank you Professor Hoffmire for believing in me enough to name me Editor in Chief for two wonderful years. And thank you to all of the other editors that I have worked with in the past two years, all of the staff members who have worked hard with us editors, and most of all thank you to all of the contrib-

utors for continuously giving us material, otherwise this magazine would not be possible. It’s been fun Pfeiffer! - Kayla Lookabill 5

Table Of Contents Letter from the Advisor………………………… . Page 4 Letter from the Editor…………………………….. Page 5 Table of Contents……………………………… Page 6 Writer Spotlight Angela Hunt By: Claire Johnson……………… Page 10 Test of Gold : Contest Feature Forever My Valentine By Angela Hunt……………Page 11 Short Fiction: Lily the Terrible By Stacy Deese……………… Page 14 P.53 By: Kaleigh Featherstone………………… Page 23 Student Spotlight Leap of Faith By Sarah Roberts…………………Page 30 Children of Guatemala By Steven Beaver ……… Page 32 Photography and Visual Art: Meditation By Alan Allis……………………… Page 36 Children of Haiti (Series) By Amber-Drew Foster… Page 37 6

Table Of Contents Poetry: Medication By Brittany Loder………………… Page 44 Whiskey’s Gone By Cody Jones……………… Page 45. Practice By Brittany Loder……………………Page 46 Identity Problems By Cody Jones………………Page 47 Favorite Professors: Heather Ross Miller By Kayla Lookabill………… Page 50 Kristi Embry By Hannah James……………… Page 51 Fires of Inspiration Heather Ross Miller By: Amber Cottrell………….Page 54 Did You Know? The Life Outside Your Box By Jamie Alcala……...Page 58 Art Show By Amber Huskins…………………… Page 60 Faculty Submissions Tangee Lipstick By Professor Sylvia Hoffmire……Page 62 7

Test Of Gold Featured Contest Winner 9

Writer Spot Light Angela ‚Angie‛ Maria Hunt was born in Nashville, Tennessee but for the past eight years has called Boston, Massachusetts home. She is an English Major with a concentration in Creative Writing at Pfeiffer University. After one year as an Art Major, Angie decided that English was a better fit for her. It is easy to say that Angie is a very artistic individual. When she graduates from college Angie says she eventually wants to publish a novel, but first she’s moving to Brooklyn to hopefully get a job in either editing or journalism. When asked why she likes to write, her response was, ‚Writing is one way I can really express myself. I try to evoke different emotions. When I write I want to make the reader feel something.‛ Besides writing Angie is pursuing a passion in Cross Fitness. Angie doesn’t have a specific favorite topic to write about, but she has recently been writing a lot about abuse toward women in order to bring attention to that situation. She wants to show through her writing that women who have been or are being abused are not alone and they can move on. This past Valentine’s day Angie entered the Pfeiffer Phoenix Valentine’s day contest and won first place with her short story entitled, ‚Forever My Valentine.‛

-Claire Johnson

Forever My Valtine My hand trembled as I pushed on the partially open front door of my house. I took quick, shallow breaths as I entered the front room. The door creaked. I held my breath and became motionless. I slowly peeked behind the door to find a trail of rose petals. I realized the room was dimly lit by candles scattered around the house. The aroma of vanilla filled the air. I was no longer trembling, but my heart was racing. Tears began to fill my eyes. One escaped and glided down my cheek. I glanced into the dining room, where the table was set. A bottle of Chardonnay was placed in a bucket of ice on the center of the table. A single rose rested on one of the plates. The petals on the floor continued toward the bedroom. By now I was trembling, nervous. I took my hair out of the messy bun that had resided on top of my head for almost three days now. It gently fell down, grazing the small of my back. I looked in the hall mirror. I was a mess in a baggy white shirt and grey yoga pants. I entered the room to find David sitting on the bed. David stood up and I ran to him in tears. He held me tightly against his body; my arms wrapped around his neck and my legs around his waist. The only noise you could hear was the sound of my sporadic breathing choked by my tears. I felt small in his arms. He was solid and strong. The outline of his muscles bore through his uniform. I’d forgotten how golden his eyes were. They were deep and glossy from the tears swelling up in them. He had the same chiseled features and a strong square jaw line. I was speechless. I looked into his eyes as he held me. Our lips touched for the first time in two years. For those two years I was tormented by the thought that I’d never see him again. That I’d get a call telling me that the love of my life was gone – not only from my life, but from this world. For the first time in two years I was able to breath. 11

Forever My Valtine Laying on the bed, he took my hands in his and our fingers interlaced. I held him like it was the last time Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d ever see him. He fell asleep in my arms, but I did everything in my power to stay awake. I wanted to keep him in my sight, but within seconds my eyes began to shut and I gave in. I fell asleep holding David. I was finally happy again. ************ I came back to consciousness. It was cold. My teeth were chattering and my hands quivering. The brisk wind hit me like thousands of sharp needles. I fell to my knees in tears, trembling. The tears quickly escalated to a violent sob. My body was out of control, almost as if I was convulsing. My eyes remained frozen, in a trance, staring at the tombstone in front of me:

David Harper, US Marine Corps, January 25, 1982- February 14, 2007. - Angela Hunt Valentine Contest Winner

Short Fiction

Lily The Terrible ‚LILY!‛ The child could hear her name bouncing off the corridors. The pounding of her feet and panting breath quickly covered the yelling and she raced down the hallway. Lily peeked around the corner. The coast was clear. Saint Nicholas was standing guard near the kitchen door the same as he had for the last fifty years, the old plaster discolored and chipped. Lily had been terrified of this man the first time she bumped into him as a toddler. After the hitting the cold stone, 4-year old Lily glanced up into his vacant eyes and instantly felt fear. With age came courage, and now the blank expression on his face simply amused her. Lily slipped by. As she passed the kitchen door she could hear the other nuns preparing the nightly dinner, and Sister Hazel singing off key. Fourteen feet and twelve portraits of the disciples were the only thing standing between Lily and the outside door to freedom. Lily dashed, her feet barley clicking the stone floor. The eyes of Judas followed her as she pushed through the oak door and felt the warmth of last rays of sun hitting her face. Lily knew Mother Agnes would be looking for her, and she was determined to stay out of sight until dinner. ‚She gets so mad all the time!‛ Lily kicked the only stones within her foot’s reach back in the stream. The previous day she had enlisted the assistance of one of the altar boys to help her collect all of the frogs, salamanders, and any other creepy crawlies they could find. Jeremy was always willing to help Lily anytime she asked, but he asked too many questions. ‚Hey Lily, what are you gonna do with all of these?‛ Lily could hear the hesitation as Jeremy asked. ‚ ‘Member that story of Moses? And all those animals being sent to Egypt?‛ Lily’s eyes flashed with excitement. ‚Lily…‛ 14

Lily The Terrible ‚Oh quit being such as weenie. I just want to see what they would all look like.‛ Lily interrupted him before he could even finish. That night Lily had left the buckets in the cellar intending to finish the project later. Lily busied herself with her daily chores the next morning and when Mother Agnes found all of the rice crawling with Lily’s ‚experiment‛ that afternoon, she hadn’t found it nearly as helpful. ‚She has become a terror of this convent‛ Sister Josephine proclaim after the animals were found. ‚We should send her off to a proper orphanage and get her out of our hair.‛ ‚Oh don’t be so harsh. She’s just a child,‛ Sister Beatrice always took up for Lily when she could. Most of the nuns had a soft spot in their hearts for Lily. Sister Beatrice and Sister Hazel were always her biggest supporters and tried to cover up her smaller transgressions. This one was out of their hands. Mother Agnes was firm yet fair. She could not tolerate this type of behavior. It was understandable considering she had a convent to run. This was a job that quickly became more difficult when Lily was found abandoned on the church steps. ‚Lily isn’t going anywhere. This is her home. She is part of our family, and she will be dealt with like any other member of a family.‛ Yep, Mother Agnes: firm, but fair. Lily was successful at staying hidden until nightfall. She quietly (a term not often used to describe the child) crept into the back of the dining hall shortly after 15

Lily The Terrible the dinner bell stop ringing. She became lost in a sea of black robes as the sisters began taking their normal seats around the wooden table. Lily glanced around the room trying to spot Mother Agnes, comfortable in believing that the mother would be too distracted with the meal to remember her earlier transgressions. Lily was wrong. She had just made herself comfortable in her seat at the far end of the table near the novice nuns when Mother Agnes pulled her to her feet by her shirt collar. The mother’s habit, probably two sizes too big already, added to her dainty appearance, and it whipped through the air as she spun Lily around to face her. ‚Lily!‛ With the echoing final sound of the name the rest of the hall quieted and turned to look at the pair. Most of the nuns were not present when the animals were discovered, but they had heard from the Kitchener what had happened and were awaiting Mother Agnes’ punishment for the child. While Lily’s supporters sympathized with her, they knew this type of behavior was unacceptable. ‚Thanks to your little escapades earlier, we’re short on rice for the rest of the month. Sister Beatrice will have to spend all day tomorrow at the market buying more, with money that we cannot spare. I would ask for an explanation, but there isn’t anything you could POSSIBLY say to excuse this behavior.‛ ‚But Mother Agnes, I was….‛ ‚Stop!‛ Mother Agnes stopped Lily before she even had the opportunity to defend herself. ‚Go to the dormitory. Sister Hazel will bring you dinner there, later, and you will eat in solitude tonight.‛ 16

Lily The Terrible Lily stormed out of the dinner hall. She could feel the other nun’s gaze on the back of her head as she marched out the door, failing to close it behind her. Her face burned with the same rose color as her hair. Mother Agnes joined the rest of the nuns as they sat at the table and shared dinner. That night, the conversation was scarce. Mother Agnes became lost in her own thoughts. She was angry with Lily for what she had done, but more over she was hurt that the child thought it necessary to run and hide from her. Lily stormed to her room alone. ‚UGHH! SHE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING!‛ The door slammed behind Lily, abruptly finishing the sentence. The stuffed rabbit on the bed stared at Lily. She picked it up. ‚Sometimes I think you’re the only one who does.‛ She flopped on the bed beside the animal releasing a deep sigh. There were just too many rules here. They wanted Lily to study, to learn the Bible stories, to recite the verses, to say the prayers; to be the best nun ever. There was even a picture of Lily as a toddler in Sister Hazel’s room wearing a miniature habit. Everyone had thought it was adorable, but Lily found it annoying. Lily enjoyed all of it; well most of it, but the nuns were old. They didn’t know what it was like to be a child! The sisters at the parish were the only family Lily had ever known, and even here she didn’t fit in. She liked living here, she really did. She especially liked the stories of battle, and walking on water, and the flood! In fact, she liked them so much she wanted to live them. Sister Hazel found her enthusiasm endearing, but not Mother Agnes. She was so uptight and didn’t let Lily get away with anything 17

Lily The Terrible Lily lay on the bed, her thoughts convincing her she was in the right. Lily would study the stories, but she would do it her way. Everyone else was wrong. She closed her eyes. She wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else but here. The problem was there wasn’t anywhere else to be. Lily had been at the nunnery for as long as she could remember. She was abandoned here, her own family not wanting her, and it was obvious that Mother Agnes didn’t want her either. She didn’t belong anywhere. Lily was still lying on the bed, her eyes closed in own self-pity, when Sister Hazel came in with dinner. Sister Hazel secretly always wanted children of her own, and when Mother Agnes found infant Lily on the monastery steps ten years earlier, it was Sister Hazel who was more than happy to be the one to look after her during the first few years of life. Hazel loved the child as her own and looked after her as much as she could. This was one problem she couldn’t help Lily solve and felt helpless in the entire situation. Sister Hazel carried the tray with the soup and bread and sat it on the only table in the nearly vacant room. She stood momentarily waiting for Lily to say something or to move, but the child never did. Lily just continued to lay there, her back turned to the nun, without saying anything. Sister Hazel waddled over to the bed, leaned over slightly, and kissed the child on the head. Lily could feel the warmth of her pressed against her back when she bent over. Lily longed for that warmth to continue, but was too proud to say anything. She let Sister Hazel leave without saying anything. She waited until she heard Sister Hazel shut the door behind her as she left. She sat up and went to the dinner. After quickly wolfing down the cold soup and bread Lily tip-toed to the door, and 18

Lily The Terrible opened it slightly. She knew the other sisters would be retiring soon. They never stayed up long after nightfall. Once evening prayers were finished, they all said their goodnights and turned in. Lily always imagined Mother Agnes being the first to go to sleep; after all, she was the oldest and most boring. Lily waited. This was her favorite part of the day. When all of the other nuns were mindlessly visiting some faraway place, dreaming of things they had long since forgotten, Lily was busy exploring the strange world she called her home. She had discovered years ago that the nuns never locked most of the doors inside of the monastery. She could spend hours of the nights turning the halls of St. Nicholas’ into lands she could only dream about. The winding stairwells, the maze of long corridors, the creaking of old heavy doors: they all morphed into new a new world in the shadows of the moon sneaking through the stain glass. Lily loved getting lost in the complexity. When she was convinced all of the nuns were asleep, Lily felt along the familiar path out of the dormitory. Where would she go tonight? Lily never planned on where her adventures would take her; she just let her imagination lead the way. She passed the door to the cellar and remembered the salamanders. She couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of Mother Agnes with a handful of toads. She slipped past the door and continued through the curving corridors. That’s when Lily noticed a light. The library: Lily’s favorite part of the parish. The nuns kept countless books and stories. Most of them were gospels or books from the Bible, and even a lot of those were in Latin (a language Lily had yet to master). But that’s not what excited 19

Lily The Terrible Lily. What she liked were the books containing the tales of the saints and the histories. Lily use to spend hours a night exploring a new world in words, and the next morning recreating the vivid images in her head. Lily hadn’t been to the library since she made Jeremy carry her across the creek after reading about St. Christopher carrying the child with the weight of the world. Jeremy dropped her halfway through and she showed up to dinner sopping wet. Mother Agnes wasn’t too fond of that one either. Lily popped her head inside the library door. No one was there. She scanned the shelves of leather bound classics running her hand across the spines of ancient texts, inhaling the dark scent of aging pages. She turned the corner and went into the next room. The books here were newer. These were the tales of the saints and heroes. These were the ones who performed miracles and were martyred and went down as legends. Lily skimmed the names etched in the books through the dimly light wall lights. She twirled among the shelves, glancing up at the towering shelves. A large crimson volume with black lettering stood out in the blacks and browns. Lily reached for the book, but it was just out of her grasp. She pulled a chair from a nearby table to get the book. ‚Silent Voices: The Miracles of WWII‛ Lily read the title out loud, her voice echoing between the stacks. She removed the book from the shelf almost dropping it in surprise to the weight. She sat on the floor and placed it on her lap. The pages were crisp like a new dollar bill, as if they had rarely been turned. Lily flipped the pages, glanced at the pictures. The book contained stories of a distant war and fallen heroes. Lily remembered hearing about World War I in one of her history lessons, but she couldn’t remember the details. At halfway through the book Lily stopped. The image of a handsome soldier stared back at her. There was something about the pain in his eyes that kept Lily from turning the page. The air was still and room silent. Lily’s hands trembled as she turned the pages of the book. 20

Lily The Terrible With every word that she read, her face lit with more excitement. Halfway through the story, Lily pushed the book off her lap and jumped on top of one of the tables. ‚Tom, don’t take the shot,‛ Lily whispered to an invisible friend. ‚The enemy is too close and it’ll give our position away. Stay close.‛ Lily rolled off the table began crawling on her elbows between table legs and chairs. She was hiding from the army she saw in her mind. The story from the book danced in her imagination. ‚Tom, look! There’s the camp!‛ Lily’s excitement grew. She crawled back to the book, laying on her stomach to finish the story. ‚Wait a minute…‛ Lily looked at the book, her brow squinted towards her eyes, her bottom lipped pressed out. She read the last page again. She sat up; the air of playfulness left. She read the story again, taking in every word. When she was finished she looked up at the over turned chairs she had used for cover. She looked around the library, taking in everything. It was the first time she had seen the room for what it was, as part of something greater. It wasn’t a jungle, or an enemy war camp. It was a library inside of a monastery. It was her home. She was suddenly exhausted. She left the book lying on the floor, unable to lift the weight back to the top shelf. She turned the light off before leaving the library. The way was familiar. She made every turn and avoided every lose board from memory. When she reached the east wing, she closed the dormitory door behind her without a sound. There was a light coming from Mother Agnes’ door, and it was slightly ajar. Lily looked down the corridor. Her room was the last on the left and she knew she could make it there without being noticed. She took a deep breath and tiptoed by without a sound. Lily didn’t have to worry about being caught by Mother Agnes. The mother superior wasn’t in her room. In fact, she hadn’t spent much time in her room at night for two years. Every 21

Lily The Terrible night when Lily would sneak from her room, Mother Agnes wouldn’t be far behind her. She never said anything or even let the child know she was watching, but she would follow. She went with Lily when she pretended to be a movie star on the main stage of the sanctuary, or when she was a master chef in the kitchen. She even sat in the next room and laughed when Lily single handedly fought Goliath in the courtyard. And on this night it was Mother Agnes who left the light on in the library knowing Lily would investigate. She listened from the next room as Lily fought off the Axis soldiers. She could hear her as she rolled off the table and fire her pretend gun. Mother Agnes followed in the shadows when Lily got tired and went back to bed. Mother Agnes could sleep soundly knowing all of her flock was soundly asleep. She went back to her own room and prepared for bed. She said her usual prayers, thanking God for her sisters, reciting them all individually by name. ‚And may your will be done and your word be followed…And dear great Father, thank you the darling blessing you have given me in Lily. I pray that you help her find her place in this world and her place in you. I thank you for her and I pray that she may live to see the true workings of your miracles.‛ Down the hall Lily climbed into the warmth of familiarity. Lily pulled the comforter up to her chin and closed her eyes. She was no longer angry with Mother Agnes, and she longed for the woman to embrace her, just like she did when she was little. Lily had never known a mother, but she liked to pretend that if she really did have a mom out there somewhere, she would be just like Mother Agnes. The portrait of the soldier looked back at Lily through her eyelids. She could see him, wondering through the trees, leading his men into danger, but trusting God. And then she saw Mother Agnes, standing in front of the nuns on Sunday morning, leading morning prayers, leading them into the dangers of the world, but trusting God. Lily quickly drifted off to sleep. - Stacy Deese 22

P.53 Your friends wave at you frantically, motioning for you to roll your window down while you are stopped at the stop light. They are all bunched up in Corey’s sporty red convertible and seem to be having a great deal of fun. Corey yells, ‚Hey Kaleigh! A bunch of us are getting together at Pancho’s tonight and then we’re going to chill at Jason’s house afterwards. May drink a little, watch a few movies. You wanna come?‛ You will think about the research sitting in your lab and the impending deadline that is quickly approaching. Cancer waits for no one. Time is running out and if you want your work to be recognized and published it has to be done. ‚I’ll see if I can come,‛ you’ll say not wanting to inform them that you have other dedications to the world or petri dishes, microscopes, incubators, viruses, bacteria, and lab rats. You know they will not understand and if you told them, they would call you a party pooper and say you are never any fun. It is best not to say anything and then continue on your way to lunch. Just as you pull up at the long line at the Wendy’s drive through, your phone vibrates loudly in the cup holder beside you. It is a text from your boyfriend. Hey cutie! I hope you are having a great day and saving the world ;) I love you and hope that I can hear from you soon! You have not spoken to Tyler much the last few weeks; just small texts here and there. One day he had surprised you at the lab with a bouquet of roses and told you he was proud of all the hard work you were doing. He always has a natural ability for making you feel better and he understands you more than anyone. Work has just been so demanding and tedious as of late and there is no time for friends, family, or your boyfriend. You slowly pull up to the order stand, order a grilled chicken salad and Frosty, pull up to the window, pay in one dollar bills, receive your food, and then drive back to the lab. 23

P.53 Research Lab and Company is the smallest, privately owned lab in the United States. Though small, you have exactly what you need. You walk through the front door and smile at Dr. Mark, your boss, who is sitting at the front counter. He is a brilliant, funny man and like every day, he looks at your food and reminds you that food is overrated. You laugh and say, ‚Yeah, yeah Dr. Mark. Just like sleep is for the weak. I, on the contrary, am perfectly fine with having overrated food and getting some sleep every night.‛ You walk to your lab, Wendy’s bag still in hand, and move various petri dishes and concoctions to the side to clear a spot off the counter to eat. Most people would think that eating in a lab is a biological hazard, but you know well enough that nothing in this lab could harm you. As long as you keep to yourself and are careful not to contaminate your samples, everything is fine. The first rule to lab safety, keep it clean, be careful, and nothing can go wrong. Your lab rats, Louise, Stewie, and Periwinkle are watching you intently from their glass cage. They move their heads up and down, watching each forkful of salad go from the bowl into your mouth. You feel sorry for them and walk over to their cage, tearing a piece of your grilled chicken into three pieces for each of them. They tremble with joy and move to different areas of the cage to enjoy their morsel. ‚Awww… well I’m glad you little guys are happy. I’m just sorry that I can’t help you out a little more. I know you’re suffering.‛ Louise, Stewie, and Periwinkle are all slowly dying of cancer. Periwinkle was the first to start showing signs. She runs in circles and sways when she stands up on her hind legs. Many days you have seen her trip over her own feet. This week she seemed to be losing function in her legs, they are becoming stiff. She has cancer in her brain. Stewie had slowly begun to decrease the food intake that he had each day. Most days, he only lays in his straw bed and sleeps. He has a tumor that is beginning to form in his stomach. As for Louise, she has a large, visibly developing tumor in her right thigh and now has a constant limp. It is pain24

P.53 ful watching them day in and day out, lying there with hopeful eyes as you mix together various chemicals, extract proteins from various bacteria, and then inject them with the substance, only to see the next day their symptoms had not improved. You are working as hard as you can to find the cure to clear up the illnesses. You felt that you were so close to finding what you wanted; something was just missing from the equation. All your research has been thorough. The key had to be there amongst the stacks and stacks of papers or within one of the many books that lined the shelves. The cure for cancer. It would help your rats and also could provide an entirely new hope for human cancer patients. Then it hits you. Something you had read as an undergraduate student. What was it? You dig through the mass of textbooks that have collected in your storage and finally reach the Cell and Molecular Biology textbook you had not touched since your Junior year of college. You flip through the pages quickly, it all coming back to you. You find what you are looking for on page 594. “When a cell suffers so much damage that it is unable to repair itself, it may trigger its own demise. In particular, when a cell’s DNA is damaged it can enter apoptosis via the activity of p53. As we saw earlier in this chapter, p53 acts through the protein Puma, which binds to and inhibits Bcl -2. In the end, just like survival factors, the p53 pathway activates pro-apoptotic proteins to trigger apoptosis.” (Becker’s World of the Cell) Gene therapy! That is the key! You scramble around the room grabbing all the things that you will need to try your new idea. The p53 gene will have to be ordered, but it could be shipped in on express mail and be here tomorrow. 25

P.53 ‚Don’t worry Periwinkle, Stewie, or Louise, I’ll be getting you help and you will be pain free soon!‛ You run to the front desk. ‚Dr. Mark! Dr. Mark!‛ ‚What is it? Is there a fire? Did the rats escape? Did you break glass? Did you mix the wrong chemicals? ‚Woah, woah Dr. Mark. Slow down. No, none of that happened. I was just wondering if you could order some p53 through the company funds. I have a new idea.‛ ‚Oh, well why didn’t you say that in the first place. Sure, I can have it for you in the morning.‛ You drive to your apartment and then throw your body onto the bed. Nothing else in the world seemed to matter. Tomorrow was going to be a new beginning. You wake to hear your phone vibrating on the nightstand. Babe? You ok? I haven’t heard a word from you and just wanted to make sure you were ok. Rolling over, you see the clock. It is 3:16 AM. You reach over and set your alarm for 7:30 AM. Tyler can wait until tomorrow you reason, and then, still exhausted, fall back to sleep. The alarm beeps loudly, startling you out of sleep. You are quick to your feet and can hardly get to work fast enough. You rush through the front door and greet Dr. Mark with a big smile. He smiles back. ‚You know sleep is for the weak right?‛ He winks and then hands you the small USPS box. 26

P.53 In the lab, you mix the p53 with virus strains. These viruses take up the p53 genes into their capsids, packing them tightly until they are ready for release. After they have had time to uptake the genes, the viruses are mixed with the puma protein and then you directly inject the mixture into your lab rats. It will take a while before you can see the effects, but you have very high hopes that this procedure will be successful. You feed Periwinkle, Louise, and Stewie and then decide to stay in the labs to watch any progress. The viruses will take some time to attach to the cancerous cells and release their contents, but you do not care. You are ready to see the results that your years of research have produced. If you have to stay there for three days straight, you have decided you will. You decide to pull your phone out of your purse and see if anyone has texted you. 16 missed calls! Tyler must be worried sick! You dial his number and then hear a familiar ringtone out in the hallway. Tyler stands in the doorway appearing relieved to see you. He grabs you in a big hug and wonders why you did not answer his phone calls. You apologize and then tell him your big news. He is happy for you and says he will stay with you to see the progress. This is a good time for you to catch up on all the time you have missed with each other. At the end of the day, all three rats seem to be doing slightly better. Periwinkle has stopped running in circles, Stewie has begun eating a little more, and Louiseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s limp has seemed to lighten. By the end of the next day, the improvements seem to be greatly amplified. You decide to take tissue samples from each of the tumors and then view them under the microscope. What you see is that the cells are undergoing 27

P.53 apoptosis. The cancerous cells are dying at a very rapid rate. It is remarkable seeing the cancer cells shrivel and die, powerless to the p53 gene. By day three, your rats seem to be almost completely back to normal. The results have been very positive and the tumors have shrunk considerably. Periwinkle, Louise, and Stewie, are all happier and seem younger due to their new health. They climb all around in their new cage and play around with each other like they used to do before they fell ill. These results are remarkable and you cannot wait to expose them to the world. - Kaleigh Featherstone

Student Spot Light

Leap of Faith It's your first mission trip, so you decide to start off easy with Saturday afternoon visits to a nursing home or public park; or you can take a leap of faith like student Steven Beaver. Steven's first mission trip held a lot of firsts. It was his first passport, first flight, first time going off to Central America with a group of strangers, and his first dose of culture shock. But most importantly, this was Steven's first time getting his heart stolen by people he could barely understand. Before Steven left for Guatemala his worries consisted of how he was going to get through the airport without going a cavity search or how he was going to communicate on the job site; but now his only worry is when he'll get to go back. Seeing Steven talk about his time in Guatemala is like seeing a child in Disney World for the first time, he simply glows. I've seen this young man go from worrying about what apps he can put on his iPad to how he'll raise the money for his next trip to see his Guatemalan family. The night Steven came home from Guatemala he may have been encrusted in an inch or dirt and exhausted from traveling but he was full of smiles, stories, and eagerness to plan his next trip back. He spoke mostly of the children in Guatemala, how even though they were dirty with heads full of lice and snotty noses, he couldn't help but unconditionally love each one of the happy children. Steven's favorite thing to say when talking about the kids is, "I wanted to take them all home so I could just love them and take a wet wipe to all their faces!" While is Guatemala Steven's group put on a Bible School program for the kids where he was schooled in soccer and became loved by the kids when they were given 'simple things' in goody bags full of paper, chalk, and hard candy. Things that any normal American child 30

Leap of Faith would just call simple, ordinary, or boring. As an effect of any type of mission work, we reflect on our material possessions we have that get taken for granted. Living in Guatemala, an average lifespan isn't as long as an average American life span; Steven states, "they value time with people much more than we do. When I go home to spend time with my family I'm still on my phone and I still have time to myself. People in Guatemala appreciate every second they have with neighbors, friends, and especially family. They have a genuine love for all people and it made me realize how I take people, and especially my family for granted." When I asked Steven what kind of advice he would give to anyone questioning or thinking about going on a mission trip like Guatemala, he tells me; "Just do it. People ask me all the time, 'what is it like?' and the only thing I say is come with me next time, the only way to explain it is to see it yourself. It's going to be scary, but if you don't take that leap of faith and just go for it, you'll be missing out on one of the most rewarding and awesome experiences of your life." Like Steven, I also encourage you to take a leap of faith. Take advantage of not only what Pfeiffer offers you but what life offers you; whether it be a Saturday afternoon at a nursing home or a trip across the world. -Sarah Roberts

Children of Guatemala

- Steven Beaver 32

Children of Guatemala

- Steven Beaver

Children of Guatemala

- Steven Beaver 34

Photography and Visual Art

Meditation

- Alan Allis

Children of Haiti

Series By Amber-Drew Foster

Children of Haiti

Series By Amber-Drew Foster

Children of Haiti

Series By Amber-Drew Foster 39

Children of Haiti

Series By Amber-Drew Foster 40

Children of Haiti

Series By Amber-Drew Foster 41

Poetry

Medication I feel like a zombie or a ghost; a stumbling, shuffling being lost between the living and the dead.

"the medicine brings a stable mindset," said the doctor, and the doctor was not wrong. I hold the bottle in my hand and when I try to read it the letters swim together. ADDXYZ.

I can focus on my teacher, sure. Isn't that why I'm taking this wretched stuff? But that is all I can focus on. I've lost dust dancing in sunbeams and the taste of a root beer float.

I miss the smell of my grandmother's perfume. I miss the taste of freshly picked apples, their juice sweetened by cool mountain air. I miss the warmth of a mug in my hands and the sight of dust dancing. If even dust can be free, why can't I?

I don't recognize my own hand when I reach out for my fork. My movement is slow, cumbersome; Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m the last one to leave the table. I am an old mule plodding through fields of homework. I am twelve years old,

The cap twists off and the pills fall like rain. - Brittany Loder

locked in a stall where even dust cannot dance; 44

Whiskey’s Gone There two unused glasses sit on my desk, gathering dust in the corner of my room, a silver lining around each rim. One has a sage grouse, the other a ring-tailed pheasant. Accompanying them in solitude are new whiskey stones, slowing being iced over in my freezer. Jack has long been gone from my lips. Maybe it’s the memories he brings, or the memories he leaves. Now the taste of quality and pride has been replaced with the putrid taste of Vladamirs, cheap vodka. Empty memories line my walls and serve, as a constant reminder of where I am and where I’m going. I have yet to invite him back; I need to take care of a few things first. Maybe once I get my ship squared away, the seas will be calm enough that we can both drink without spilling.

- Cody Jones

Practice Her eyes are green moss, growing between stone grey frames. Her glasses slide down her nose when she bends her head to look at sheet music; her face framed by hair escaped from her bun, black as the keys of the piano. Her fingers dance along the scales, graceful and lively. Those same fingers that later will dance along my spine and leave goosebumps in their wake now leave notes to hang in the air.

- Brittany Loder

Identity Problems She is bewitching beyond all measure and leaves me wanting after each encounter. I wish nothing more than to express this to her but no words hold the depth or fortitude to carry the full weight of this passion. Her grace compels me to act outside of myself, leaving me to wonder how she does it every time. She is my temptress and her ability to melt me in her embrace is unparalleled. It is a daily compulsion for me to long for you and the seraphic comfort of your voice . But now that my salutation is finished I cannot discern when I was thinking about her or you, which is the part the troubles me most.

- Cody Jones

Favorite Professors

Heather Ross Miller If you have never had the pleasure of taking a class with Professor Heather Ross Miller then you have completely missed out on a spectacular experience. She combines humor, wit, honesty, and humility to create an absolutely magical classroom environment. From day to day you never know what she is going to say, do, or ask. Professor Miller, who is a published poet and writer, has been a true inspiration to me. She will encourage every single one of the students who walks into her classroom to strive for excellence and she will continue to encourage her students even after their time in her class is over. She is often looking for the answers that lay right on the surface of whatever topic she may be covering, and pushes her students to give that obvious answer by saying, ‚ you guys are so smart. I’m thinking of something stupid!‛ From hearing about her adventures, like the time she set the chickens free from the Tyson chicken truck, her life experiences, and every other wonderfully crazy thing that may escape her lips, she truly embodies the type of woman that I someday hope to be. I feel as though I have stumbled upon, not only a truly great professor, but a great role model and friend. Hands down, Professor Miller is my favorite professor.

- Kayla Lookabill

Kristi Embry Dr. Kristi Embry is one of the members of the English Department and professor of literature at Pfeiffer University. Embry, a self-confessed ‚Air Force brat‛ has travelled and lived in all areas of the United States including her birthplace Albuquerque, New Mexico, Tennessee, and Indiana. She also lived with her family in Germany for four years. Dr. Embry received her PHD in English, with a focus on Nineteenth-Century British Literature and Women's Studies, at Purdue University, an institution renowned for their online writing lab, otherwise known as Purdue OWL. Embry is keen to express her love of reading and writing in the context of English and literature. Embry states that ‚words are precious. And treacherous. They are the source of our making and unmaking‛. In regards to the British, a group in which she focuses on, she finds ‚their ability to turn a phrase/construct a sentence, their repression, and their hypocrisy‛ incredibly interesting, as well as their accents and ‚love‛ of the French. Dr. Embry is very passionate when it comes to expanding her knowledge and love of English and literature to the students of Pfeiffer. ‚I like performing, I like enabling students to make connections between ideas and words and to love language. Also, I really like reading and writing.‛

- Hannah James

Fires of Inspiration

Heather Ross Miller Professor Miller was born in Albemarle, NC to Fred and Geneva Ross. She was raised in Badin where her father worked for Alcoa and her mother Geneva was a housewife. She grew up an only child. From an early age Heather had an interest in reading and writing. As a child she enjoyed reading books by A.A. Milne and she also liked fairy tales. She pretty much liked to read anything that she could get a hold of. Her favorite subject in school was English and she was fortunate enough to be educated by people who also shared her love of literature. You could say writing was in her blood since her father also was a writer. Heather attended Woman’s College (now known as UNC Greensboro) after she graduated high school. While attending college she had an English professor, named Randall Jarrell, who was influential in her writing. In 1960, while she was still in college, Heather married Clyde Miller. They were married in Wesley Chapel by Dr. Schissler, who was a sociology professor at Pfeiffer and also a Methodist minister. Clyde Miller was a graduate of Pfeiffer and a friend of Dr. Schissler. Heather graduated Woman’s College in 1961 with a BA in English. She later received a MFA in 1968 from the Woman’s College. Heather had friends from Pfeiffer who encouraged her writing. Her first book was a novel titled The Edge of the Woods. The novel was published in 1965. The inspiration for the novel was her family. Fifteen is the total number of books that Heather has had published. Her published works range from collections of poetry to a memoir. Her most recent published work is a book titled Lumina: A Town of Voices which was published in 2011. She has also written a play celebrating the 100th year anniversary of the town of Badin. The play was produced and performed in the old Badin school auditorium. In 1966 Heather began teaching at Pfeiffer. She was offered to teach creative writing which had not been offered before. At the time she began teaching she was not living in Stanly County. Her husband worked for the forestry service, so her family travelled around North Carolina living in different state parks. She was living in Singletary Lake State Park when she was offered a teaching position at Pfeiffer. The drive was long so she stayed with 54

Heather Ross Miller her parents in Badin. In 1973 she moved back permanently to Badin with her husband and kids. She has been in Badin ever since. Heather has two children, a daughter named Melissa and a son named Kirk. Melissa was a graduate from Pfeiffer. Melissa currently lives in Badin also. Kirk lives in Natural Bridge, VA with wife Tina and sons Alexander and Finn. Heather enjoys not only writing but also has an interest in art. She can draw and has done some work with oil and water colors. Her love of reading is still strong. She enjoys reading pretty much everything from the classics to trashy novels. Fiction and poems are the genres she enjoys writing. She plans to continue teaching and writing.

-Amber Cottrell

Did You Know?

The Life Outside Your Box As I walk through campus, I notice a lot of headphones, eyes glued to phones and even heads facing down. I don’t know how you feel about this but I find it kind of stinky. You may not notice because you may be one of the individuals mentioned. Well I hope by my first statement, now you will know. I just don’t get this way of walking through the world. Why are individuals so shut in, they don’t embrace the world and the individuals around them. This isn’t me just complaining, this is me noticing and turning it around on you. You should take out your headphones and listen to your surroundings, take your eyes off your phone and say hello to a stranger. Heck, lift your head up and see what the sky could offer. We all have our box that at times we want to live in but its time to break down those walls and live outside that box. Did you know there is more outside that box that you live in? Well if you didn’t, than I’m telling you now, there is more out there and a lot of adventures waiting to happen. GO FIND THEM! Take this challenge and live a little.

- Jamie Alcala

8th Annual Juried Art Show

8th Annual Juried Art Show This past week the 8th annual Juried Art Show opened at the Falling Rivers Gallery in downtown Albemarle. The show features student work from Pfeiffer University of all different majors. Students from Pfeiffer were allowed to submit works they have done within the school year to be judged by an outside artist, Ingrid Erickson, from the Waterworks Gallery in Salisbury. 25 pieces were submitted and 14 pieces were accepted into the show. The pieces ranged from sculptures, photographs, prints, and mixed media Awards were given out at the art opening that happened on April 16th. Awards as follow; Best in Show: Annette Lowder First Merit: John Borza Second Merit: Kayla Lookabill Jury Choice: Steven Jordan Viewerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Choice: Annette Lowder The show will run from April 15th through April 30th . Visit Pfeiffer-Phoenix.Com to view the pieces from the 8th Annual Juried Art Show!

- Amber Huskins

Faculty Submissions

Tangee Lipstick The door slammed behind Macy. Again. My hands, tightly wrapped around a coffee cup trembled as I released my grip. By now, I should be used to these standoffs with my daughter. They’d been going on for over a year. It seemed that a switch had been implanted at birth and flipped from darling little girl to horrifying harridan on her twelfth birthday. No doubt I should have recognized the foreshadowing of this shift during the summer prior to that birthday. She’d asked if she could start shaving her legs, and I said, no, eleven was far too young, we’d discuss it when she was older. There was no fight that time, only stoic silence and what came out months later, a self-punishing decision to boycott the club where all her friends went because she told me she would have been embarrassed by her hairy legs. Really, I asked. You’d do that to yourself over invisible blonde hairs? Only invisible to you, she said, slamming the door for the first time. In that moment I had two thoughts: one that I’d sounded alarmingly like my mother and two, that ‘only invisible to you’ was a statement that bore examination as a possible metaphor for the many pitfalls of motherhood. I was twelve when I asked to start wearing makeup. My mother’s response was to give me a tube of Tangee Lipstick, a product that boasted invisibility while becoming ‚…a shade uniquely your own.‛ What’s the point if it’s invisible? I’d asked. ‘That is the point,’ my mother said as she left my room. ‘You’re too young to wear makeup that shows.’ I chose not to pursue it having had a similar discussion with her when I asked for a training bra. She’d said found it inconceivable that breasts should need to be trained—‘and for what?’ she exclaimed when I pushed, and launched into a lecture about convention, unfair social constraints, a woman’s right to pursue freedom and, by the way, when was the last time I’d heard Jeremy ‘ask for a training jock strap?’ The comparison made no sense to me and; furthermore, the fact that we’d somehow segued into a discussion of my older brother’s penis filled me with horror. I didn’t repeat the request, needless to say, but the conversation earned embossed status on the fabric of my memory. At the time, I wouldn’t have been able to 62

Tangee Lipstick imagine that the day of our mother’s funeral, I’d share it with Jeremy, and we’d laugh till our sides hurt. But sounding like my mother when responding to my daughter was troublesome. I loved my mother, of course. She’d been the model mom: cookies and milk after school, grade mother, adventurous outings, willing and serious consideration to every question, until—and a bell tolls in the background here—I turned twelve. At which time she became something like my enemy, and as Macy had said earlier, ‘she didn’t have a clue.’ How could I have become this clueless parent? Especially since I so vividly remember the pain and torment of my own adolescence? Seventh grade had represented the demarcation line between girlhood and womanhood for me in the summer of 1963. It cast a shadow backward across that whole summer. In our little town there were only two schools: elementary school, grades 1-6, where children played together in shrill, mindless glee; and high school, grades 7-12, where girls became women under the scrutiny of upperclassmen stationed in languid poses up against lockers. I had a late birthday which meant I was always the youngest in my class, nearly a full year younger than most of the others. Not so much a problem when I was small, but when I was twelve and all of my friends seemed so much wiser by virtue of being thirteen, I yearned vainly toward that pinnacle of maturity. I was sure that they could handle the challenges of moving from elementary school to high school with far greater ease than I. I started every day that summer in anxious inquiry before the bathroom mirror. The spots blooming on my face were too large to ignore and the spots on my developing chest were too small to be noticed. It didn’t help that my older brother, Jeremy, took every opportunity to belittle me, calling me Zit Face and Curly Top and Toothpick Legs along with other names intended to hurt my feelings, which they did. I’m not sure what that’s about, that need to diminish another person. It seems to happen between siblings about the same time parents become the enemy. Is it an atavistic urge 63

Tangee Lipstick to peck away at the perceived weakling? Is it a trait so deeply ingrained that few of us are strong enough—or weak enough—to avoid it? My friends envied me for having an older brother. They projected that he would introduce me to his friends. They also assumed Jeremy would be my protector when we went to High School, and I didn’t share with them that he’d said, ‚If I ever see you on senior hall, you’re dead meat.‛ ‚What if a teacher sends me over there?‛ I’d asked. ‚Act like you don’t know me. I can promise you that I’ll act like you’re invisible. Get it?‛ I got it. I suppose it’s possible that I assigned Jeremy the power that he exercised over me, that he represented something tangible that I could blame for my confusion and frequent fits of anguish. During that time I vacillated between a hostile desire to be left alone and a desperate yearning to be tucked into my mother’s arms. He went at me intensely at dinner one night complaining that I hogged the bathroom we shared. He picked and picked at me about standing in front of the mirror, ‚And what for?‛ he said. ‚Don’t you know it’s hopeless? It’s a wonder the mirror hasn’t cracked or something…‛ I ran crying from the table. My father, who usually maintained a controlled distance from most of our passions, apparently recognized the depth of my distress and empathized. The next day he came home from work with a full length mirror and installed it in my room. ‚Every pretty girl needs her privacy,‛ he said. I don’t remember him telling me I was pretty before that incident, and I don’t think he ever repeated the compliment. I carried that praise with me like a secret treasure for years, trying to leverage it into a confidence I never truly felt. I’ve asked my husband to please tell Macy she’s pretty. If he does, it’s when I’m not around. He’s always resisted my parenting suggestions and lately I’ve begun to see it as the worst sort of passive aggressive behavior that hurts all of us. And now that I’ve recognized an echo of my mother’s voice in my own, I’m led 64

Tangee Lipstick to wonder if I’ve stepped into other clichéd behavior and married someone like my father. Adolescence is brutal. Knowing that, remembering that, it seems I should be able to help Macy through hers. But I seem to be making the same mistakes my mother did. Or maybe it’s not so much mistakes, but a failure to perceive a better path. Reflecting on my own conflicted feelings at Macy’s age makes me wonder if she’s feeling the same way. Sometimes Macy allows me to come close, and I’m grateful for those moments, but I can’t help being cautious because I don’t know when she’ll welcome me or when I’ll cut myself on her sharp edges. I can’t help but think a strong father would have made a difference for me as it would now for Macy. Someone who could mediate or at least provide some guidance through the minefield mothers and daughters negotiate daily. Someone each of them could turn to for solace. My fantasy father would have been a Ward Cleaver or Jim Anderson variety: present without intruding, strong without overpowering, wise without lecturing, and always effectively armed to ward off the dragons. I wanted one of those fathers, tried unsuccessfully to cast mine in that role, and I carried the memory of the mirror incident like a treasure tucked inside an amulet. Most often, however, he was behind a newspaper or crouched over a chessboard plotting the next move against an invisible opponent whose moves appeared in eccentric envelopes, previously used, crudely taped back together with our address superimposed on someone else’s. The arrival of those envelopes inspired more enthusiasm in my father than anything I or my brother ever accomplished. On the other hand, my mother’s presence was nearly large enough to make up for his lesser one. Now that I have children, I sometimes wonder if her personality grew to fill the space his failed to occupy. And here I go again. Several years ago, a friend recommended that I read a book that’s been around for a long time, My Mother, My Self. She said she’d found it very enlightening. I preferred to avoid knowing more than I already knew at the time, and now that I’m being forced to reconcile my image of my mother with who I’ve become… 65

Tangee Lipstick Well. I guess, I’d rather not affirm it as a universal condition. I don’t know what Macy wants, but I’m hoping to find out, to build a bridge across this chasm that’s opening between us. She just breezed through as if nothing’s wrong, said she was going to the library with her best friend, Gwyn, dropped a kiss on my head, closed the door normally. Apparently she went upstairs and took the other Macy out of storage. The one who likes me. I should be grateful instead of off balance, I suppose. I had a best friend back then, too. Allison. She was everything I wanted to be and wasn’t: she had long, blond hair that streamed down her back, heavy, glossy, capable of returning to its shape regardless of disturbances. Her blue eyes were framed with long, dark lashes that cast actual shadows on her cheeks, and if all that wasn’t enough, she tanned a golden color. People said she looked like Grace Kelly. She did. And she had breasts. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to be like her; I think in a deep, secret part of myself I wanted to be her, and I studied her as closely as I did the books I read. She balanced being a little girl and a burgeoning woman better than anyone I’ve known since, and she did it instinctively, without the dangerous self-consciousness I came to recognize in other women later in my life. She was as ready to ride bikes or go creek walking as she was to stand in front of a mirror trying on new clothes and hair styles. And she acknowledged my ‘hair despair’ as we dubbed it, and tried to help. It had become the symbol of all that was wrong with me. I believed if I could change that one aspect of my appearance, everything else would fall into place. The ugly duckling would be replaced by a swan. My mother had kept it short all through my childhood, but when I claimed governance over my appearance in the fifth grade, she stepped back, though her attitude toward my hair was much the same as towards the bra issue. She believed in accepting the hand we were dealt, while I believed in miracles and, failing a miracle, chemically induced straightening and cosmetic surgery as soon as I earned enough money since she refused to support my ambition. I grew out the wiry, curly mass that was my hair. Maybe I thought that if it grew long 66

Tangee Lipstick enough, it would turn into hair like Allison’s. Without question, the day I rinsed it with lemon juice and sat in the sun to let it dry, I had hoped beyond all reason that it would miraculously transform. When I stomped through the kitchen, shadowed by the mass of wildly bushy hair, my mother turned from the stove, smirked and said, ‚What did you expect?‛ Allison and I bobby pinned it, scarfed it, rolled it, taped it and then decided to iron it. Choosing a time when my mother would be out of the house for a while, we set up the ironing board in the laundry room and tried to decide if we should set the iron on cotton, silk, or linen. Allison thought that as heavy and coarse as my hair was that we’d probably need all the heat we could get. While the iron heated, we went back to the kitchen to make lemonade and returned to check the readiness of the iron. I sprinkled water on it the way my mother did, and the water sizzled on contact, forming into little balls like bee bees. We thought it was just right. It wasn’t easy finding the right position to get as much of my hair on the board as possible, but I finally managed an awkward back bend while Allison held the iron and smoothed my hair out the best she could. We were completely unprepared for the first touch of the iron. It burned every strand it touched and caught the rest on fire. My hair sizzled like bacon in a hot pan but with a far less appealing aroma. It stank. Allison jerked the iron away immediately, but my hair kept on frying. I screamed , of course, lost my balance and went down in a tangle with the collapsing board. Fortunately, Allison kept hold of the iron and her good sense, too. She grabbed the pitcher of lemonade and poured it over my head. Jeremy walked in and grabbed his nose. ‚What stinks?‛ Even crouched under the ironing board with lemon slices sliding down my neck, I observed the subtle shift in Allison’s demeanor when Jeremy appeared on the scene. ‚We were trying to iron Meredith’s hair.‛ ‚Iron your hair! Are you crazy? Why in Sam Hill would you iron your hair, Meredith? You 67

Tangee Lipstick can’t even iron a T-shirt without scorching the heck out of it.‛ He did lift the ironing board off of me while Allison smiled and smiled at him. ‚I hope you do a better job mopping the floor, or Mom’s going to finish what you started and snatch you baldheaded.‛ I remember standing in front of the mirror in my room, too shocked by my appearance even to cry. Allison had backed out of the room apologetically when we heard my mom’s car in the driveway. When Mom appeared in the doorway, her shriek of horror said it all. Surprisingly she was more understanding than I would have expected. There were no lectures of the training bra variety, no ‘look at what you’ve done’, no moralizing. Instead, she just went to the phone and called her hairdresser to see if she could perform an unscheduled act of mercy. Estelle’s remedy was a poodle cut, a short frothy style made popular, obviously, by a canine, which didn’t recommend it to me at all. When Estelle pointed out that Jennifer Basset had recently adopted the style, I found it even less than comforting considering the fact that Jennifer was five years old. When she finished working her wiles with my hair, I stared grimly at my image seeing the face of Frankie in Member of the Wedding superimposed. ‚It won’t spike up like that all over when it gets used to being short,‛ Estelle said. ‚Right now it’s in shock.‛ ‚Aren’t we all,‛ Mom said, while I wrapped a scarf around my head. Fortunately, I had most of the summer to let it grow out so that by the time school started it was curly again. Curly enough that I no longer looked like I’d stuck my finger in an electric outlet as Jeremy had suggested several times too many. The subtle shift in Allison’s attention when Jeremy appeared on the scene had stayed with me. I won’t say it supplanted my absorption in my appearance, but it lingered. I think it fostered my first awareness that what was instinctive to her was lacking in me, and I was 68

Tangee Lipstick smart enough to understand that instinct can’t necessarily be cloned though I wouldn’t have been able to put it into those words, or any words for that matter. One afternoon Allison and I were sitting across from each other in a booth at the drugstore, trying to translate who loved who from the initials carved into the tabletop when Mark Beattie, the star basketball player for our varsity team slouched over and dropped his lanky frame onto the seat beside me. I scrambled over to give him room, speechless with delight tinged with fear that he’d chosen to sit beside me. ‚Your name’s Allison, isn’t it?‛ I realized my side of the booth gave him a better look at Allison. ‚Uh huh. And that’s Meredith.‛ He grunted without turning his head, and I thought that might mean hello, so I said hi back and ducked quickly to take a pull at my coke. To my mortification I sucked air instead. The embarrassing sound didn’t distract Mark from his focused attention on Allison. I suppose I was grateful for that. ‚You’re going to be over at the high school in the fall, aren’t you?‛ ‚Uh huh,‛ Allison said. I spent a considerable amount of time trying to say uh huh like Allison did, but it never came out quite the same ‚You going to the sock hop on Friday?‛ ‚Probably.‛ Allison did this neat thing of looking down at the table, tracing her finger through a drop of water and then looking back up at Mark. ‚Are you?‛ ‚Yeah. Probably.‛ There was an awkward silence, and then I shifted, and my sweaty leg suctioned off the plastic seat covering. 69

Tangee Lipstick That got Mark’s attention. He looked at me and laughed. ‚What was that?‛ I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t say anything, just shrugged and tried not to blush ‚You don’t talk much, do you?‛ he said. Things only got worse when I tried to answer because the sound came out thick and gooey. ‚This your kid sister?‛ Mark snapped his head in my direction. ‚My mom makes me take my little brother with me lots of times, too.‛ ‚No, this is my best friend, Meredith. She’ll be at Candler High next year, too – and she’ll be at the Sock Hop. Too.‛ I can still feel the surge of gratitude, affection and another emotion I couldn’t name then, but know now was respect for her loyalty. While I wasn’t mature enough at the time to fully appreciate its value, the significance of loyalty resonated through the complications of my relationship with Allison and others across the years. When I was in therapy once, trying to make sense of my troubled marriage, the therapist said, ‚Loyalty is far more important than love in any relationship.‛ I believe he was right. All of my preparations for the dance involved imagining what Allison would look like, and how she’d look different from me. I knew it was an irrational approach, but I couldn’t seem to help it. While I recognized that our physical characteristics were completely different, I believed that if I could achieve her poise, her philosophy, if you will, that in some way I could be transformed, dressing like her gave me a start, and I studied myself in the mirror the afternoon of the dance hoping to see at least a hint of the transformation. It eluded me until I decided that breasts were the essential difference. She had them. I didn’t. My carefully chosen shirt looked empty. I plundered my mother’s lingerie and came away with a black lace bra that I stuffed with her scarves. Pleased with the effect, I put on a big sweater to avoid unwanted questions and speculations as I left the house. 70

Tangee Lipstick After enduring a number of reminders regarding behavior and safety from my parents, I left to walk the three blocks to the high school. The final reminder had been to find Jeremy and have him walk me home, something I had no intention of doing. His scorn would be intolerable. Allison was waiting for me inside the door of the gym where large traffic lights flashed alternately red, yellow, and green from the corners and Chubby Checker urged all of us to twist again. It was wonderful. She grabbed my hand and dragged me to the bathroom for a final check of our makeup. That would be her makeup, all I was wearing was Tangee Lipstick, of course. As soon as we were in the brightly lit bathroom, Allison spun around to face me. She’d parted her hair in the middle so that it lay in straight lines along her face. Her eyelids and her lips were painted a shocking, fluorescent white. ‚Isn’t it too much?‛ ‚Yeah.‛ I said meaning really yeah, way too much. I didn’t know what to say. I remember that the older girls standing at the row of sinks, touching up their make-up and smoking were rolling their eyes at each other. ‚Why have you got that big sweater on, you’re going to die out there.‛ She tugged at the sleeve, and I let her help me pull it off while I tried to think of the right thing to do. Why would somebody as naturally pretty as Allison do this to herself? And should I say something or just keep my mouth shut? Allison darted forward suddenly. ‚What’s that?‛ she asked as she grasped the end of a scarf that had worked its way up past the neckline of my dress. My hand flew up to cover it, but Allison had already started to pull it out. And out. And out. The scarf kept on unfurling and my bosom unfurled with it. Finally, it pulled free and hung limply from Allison’s hand. ‚Oh, Meredith, now you’re all flat on one side.‛ The older girls at the mirror turned to look at us. One of them said, ‚I didn’t think they 71

Tangee Lipstick let little girls come to these dances.‛ And another one replied, ‚Me either – and if they’re going to, somebody ought to give lessons on how to wear their mama’s underwear and their big sister’s make-up.‛ They flicked their cigarettes expertly through the open doors of the stalls, and flounced out on a wave of laughter. Allison said, ‚I’m sorry, Meredith, I was only trying to neaten you up.‛ ‚I didn’t need neatening up—I didn’t take a Kleenex to your make-up, did I?‛ ‚What are you talking about—what’s wrong with my make-up?‛ We turned to the mirrors and stared at ourselves. ‚Why did you do that to your face?‛ I asked at the same time Allison said, ‚Why did you stuff your bra?‛ We were angry, glaring at each other’s mirror image. ‚Well?‛ I said. ‚Why did you?‛ ‚I wanted to look special tonight. You know, really pretty.‛ ‚You are really pretty.‛ ‚Thanks.‛ Allison washed her hands and dried them carefully on one of the rough paper towels and began to wipe at her make-up. ‚I was nervous about coming tonight. I was—I don’t know— afraid to wear my own face, you know?‛ ‚Yeah, I know. I was afraid to wear my own chest.‛ That made us laugh. Allison finished cleaning off her makeup, and I removed the other scarf. I don’t think I recognized the significance of that moment until many years later, and then, it bloomed from the past when Macy was agonizing over what to wear to a school dance. I’d been trying unsuccessfully to convince her that she was pretty, so pretty that it wouldn’t really matter what she wore. She dismissed me, of course, with the universal, 72

Tangee Lipstick ‘you don’t get it, Mom.’ I suppose if she has daughters, the moment will repeat again. Allison and I reentered the gym where some people were dancing, some stood around the perimeter, and some sat in the bleachers. We made our way over to the refreshments and got cups of punch. I was relieved to have something to do with my hands and grasped the cup as if it were a life preserver in a bottomless ocean. At that point, I’m pretty sure Allison was feeling the same way I did, but less than two swallows into the punch, Mark Beattie asked her to dance. Allison handed me her cup and went onto the floor with him. She knew with absolute confidence how to put her arms around his neck and look up into his eyes before laying her head against his chest as his arms went around her. That quickly she’d crossed the line in my eyes from girl to woman while I stood on the sidelines holding two cups of punch. She never came back for her punch that night. I stood in the same spot for what seemed hours so that she could find me. Finally, I moved to a spot on the bleachers, hoping someone would ask me to dance, hoping even that some of my other friends might come to sit with me. But they didn’t. I could see them. Some of them dancing, some of them giggling in groups that, for some reason, I felt unable to join. Some of them were trying without success to attach themselves to older, cooler groups. I didn’t know what to do. How to be. I wanted to leave, but felt that walking alone across the gym I’d be spotlighted, even more clearly marked a misfit. I was considering ducking under the bleachers when I realized that Jeremy was standing in front of me. I tensed, ready for him to mock me, but he held out his hand instead and said, ‚Ready to go home?‛ Tears rushed to my eyes, and I struggled to hold them back as I stumbled down out of the bleachers. He put his arm around my shoulders and led me out of the gym. I’ve often thought about that night, and my judgment is still conflicted. My relationship with Allison was irrevocably altered by that night, though she came over the next day to apologize and explain what had happened. Why her abandonment— as I saw it—wasn’t her fault. 73

Tangee Lipstick Looking back I understand the complexities of her decision, her uncertainty about how to choose between the upper classman who gave her status—and me. At the time, however, I didn’t have the generosity or the maturity to give her the right to be as confused as I was. Role models carry greater responsibility than their followers, I guess, even if they haven’t chosen the role. And now, of course, I’d give anything to protect Macy from that kind of pain, that deep sense of betrayal by the one person you think you can count on. Those subtle behavioral shifts are a lot like Tangee lipstick, I think. Altering without immediately appearing to do so. I didn’t understand the point of wearing a lipstick that didn’t look like lipstick when I was twelve; I wanted a disguise, a mask that would conceal who I really was until I’d figured it out myself. Finding out who you are when you’re twelve demands some pretension, I guess, and some imitation. It necessitates trying on different personalities until one fits or at least allows you to accept a certain amount of exposure. Surviving that process is apparently as hard for the parents as for the child. I wonder where Allison is now. I wonder if she has daughters. -Professor Sylvia Hoffmire