A-Z Files

A-ZFILES

A-Z FILES 2013

Selected Works for the Allen-Stevenson Archives

FILES The Allen-Stevenson School 132 E 78th Street New York, NY

The A-Z Files is founded in memory of Zach Levy (1985-2011), Class of 2000.

All those who knew Zach came away smiling. He was warm, charismatic, and fiercely witty. He had a big heart and is remembered well for his generosity.

Between his lifelong passion for writing and love of kids, he’d be happy to see this publication born in his honor. We all miss him very much.

CREDITS EDITORS Kerim Eken ‘00 Jonathan Klebanoff ‘00

TYPOGRAPHY + DESIGN Caitlin Mulcahy

FACULTY ADVISOR Peter Haarmann David Kersey h’98

DEVELOPMENT ADVISOR Anthony Kapp

SELECTION COMMITTEE Adam Levy ‘97 Michael Levy Jonathan Klebanoff ‘00 Scott Handwerker ‘00 COVER ART Matteo de Donato ‘16

Helen Levy Kerim Eken ‘00 Peter Haarmann

INSIDE COVER ART Luca Matts ‘16 Isaac Parlin ‘16

Copyright 2013 © The Allen-Stevenson School Produced by Action Graphics, Inc. 800 365 6687

TABLE OF CONTENTS SUBMERGENT Ben Turner ‘16 pg 7 FOREWORD Adam Levy ‘96

pg 9

CHERRY BLOSSOM Ben Turner ‘16 pg 11 IRISH BLESSING Isaac Parlin ‘16 pg 12 ODE TO BELLEZZA FUGACE Terell Long ‘13

pg 13

SKYLINE Matteo de Donato ‘16 pg 15 MARSHLANDS TO MOUNTAINS Ben Turner ‘16 pg 17 HELLO LITTLE GIRL

Max Watson ‘14 pg 18

THE DESCENT Xavier de Angoitia ‘16 pg 23 TO BUILD A FIRE Tigran Mirzayantz ‘16 pg 24 DOUBLE FACE Jonathan Katz ‘15 pg 26 MY GRANDMA AND ME Sebastian Stern ‘14 pg 28 WHO IS CINESRA? Benjamin Edelson ‘16 Luca Matts ‘16 pg 33 MYSTERY STORY Isaac Parlin ‘16 pg 50 REVOLUTIONS Felix Schloendorff ‘16 pg 54 KEYHOLE Ben Turner ‘16 pg 58 THRESHOLD Jonathan Katz ‘15 pg 63 BRANCH WEB Matteo de Donato ‘16 pg 69 THE OLD BOY Jack Salomon‘62 pg 71 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS pg 73 DONORS

pg 74

Ben Turner ‘16

“...the pleasures arising from thinking and learning will make us think and learn all the more.�

-Aristotle Nichomachean Ethics VII.12

FOREWORD Adam Levy ‘97

W

riting is hard. Really, really hard. But it’s not annoying hard like changing a tire, or frustrating hard like learning to play golf, or mind numbingly hard like sitting through a Michael Bay movie. It’s hard because all the work of writing happens in your own head, and sometimes the head of a writer is a not a very fun place to be. It’s filled with secondguessing and exasperation and feelings of inadequacy. But there is no feeling like completing what you’ve been writing; when you’ve actually created something that you’re proud of, even if it’s only just for you. The process of writing is hard. Creating is glorious.

The students who created the poems and stories in this issue of the A-Z Files have every reason to be proud of themselves. There is real talent within these pages and I can only hope that they continue to pursue something that can be so rewarding despite its challenges. Not everyone can do this, putting yourself out there, telling a story, takes guts, especially when you’re young. No one likes being judged, but everyone has something to say, and in our increasingly self-

conscious society, where even a wayward tweet can lead to a public apology, it’s important that we still say it. No matter how hard it is.

This journal was created in memory of my brother Zachary Levy. Zach was a prodigious writer. He wrote short stories, films, poems, screenplays, letters to friends, hilarious blog posts, and some of the nicest birthday cards you could ever hope to receive.

He wrote about New York, and falling in love, and crying on the beach, and inside jokes, and long endless nights when you’re 19 and feel like you can do anything and be anyone. He was a sensitive, smart kid and a beautiful writer and I know he would be proud to be associated with the up and coming writers of this issue and the school where he made some of his closest friends.

So keep writing, even when it’s hard. I know this was for me. But the world needs more storytellers. Even if they’re just going to grow up and make Transformers.

Adam Levy is a writer and comedian and was a member of the Allen-Stevenson Class of 1997. Adam is currently the Writers’ PA on AMC’s Mad Men and is the co-creator and writer of the one act play The State vs Josh: The Trial of the Millennials, and the sketch show The Sit Down and Shut Up NYPD Variety Hour, which ran in both New York and Los Angeles at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theatre.

Ben Turner‘16

IRISH BLESSING Isaac Parlin ‘16

May May May May May May May May And May

the flowers bloom in your merry wake, the fish leap high from the sparkling lake, the stars shine bright and lead the way, you never wake to a dreary day, your sails stay full and carry you far, your crops stay rich and tall as they are, the Tricolor snap in the wind at your door, you and your family suffer no more, if times of sorrow are ever the case, you bask in the warmth of our Lord’s embrace!

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ODE TO BELLEZZA FUGACE Terell Long ‘13

Doest thou love me?

Oh wondrous and temperate Autumn?

Whose love and compassion are torn Asunder by the ever changing winds, Like the forever changing heart with Within my heart Your arms are my kindle They alight the fireplace and Illuminate the night Yet send whispers through The trees that crawl upon my Skin and give me Goosebumps Like the gossiping and chit-chat Of maidens going to and fro Virtuous yet lack luster are thine eyes For some days they are blue Some days are they yellow, green and red But always at the end they become brown And thin beauty seems to scurry and flee from thee But those deep brown eyes give way to the blue and white Of winter Therefore you shall always be beautiful You contain all the inequity of the sun And inconstancy of the moon

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The hearth of summer Yet the snow of winter And sprinkles of spring Scattered about all over thy bosom Your warm and welcoming voice Sometimes becomes cold and distant So that I might change to a hat and Coat to endure thee The blossoming trees And the wilting pedals The rise of beauty And the falling of the Leaves, Suddenly, thine spark Is lost, and then comes The frigid hand of winter that grasp my throat and trembles me The fact that You do not remain virtuous forever, makes you more desirable You prove my dear, That no matter how Fleeting, life Will forever remain Beautiful.

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Matteo de Donato ‘16

Ben Turner ‘16

HELLO LITTLE GIRL Max Watson ‘14

L

ittle Red Riding Hood is walking through the forest to deliver cakes and wine to her grandmother in the woods.

On the way, however, she encounters a wolf, the wolf. Naïvely, she tells the wolf about her grandmother and, in response, the wolf tells her to pick some flowers so that she will waste time, giving him an opportunity to arrive at the grandmother’s house first. While she delays, the wolf pretends to be Little Red and devours Granny. The wolf then puts on the Grandmother’s clothes to disguise himself and waits for Little Red. After picking the flowers, Little Red finally arrives at her grandmother’s cottage, enters and, after a short dialogue with the wolf, is devoured as well. Luckily a passing hunter sees the wolf sleeping in the cottage. He cuts open the wolf’s stomach and frees the two victims.

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LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD: THE WOLF It was about midday when I saw her, the young girl in the red hood, all alone. I hadn’t eaten in days with the hunters about, so I decided to make myself a quick meal. Why not, she was there. Warily, I approached her, fearing that others might be nearby, and asked her name. It was Little Red Riding Hood. Fitting I suppose, for one with a cape like that. I had never had a meal with a name before...her name didn’t matter; she was about to become my meal. Then, realization struck.

She must be visiting someone in the woods, why else would she be alone? If I could find out, it would be a feast.

Brilliant! I began to circle the tiny morsel, mouth contorted as I flashed her a wolfish grin, “So little girl, what’s your hurry?

Where might you be going, little girl, to visit a friend mayhaps?” My mouth began to salivate. I wondered when I would eat like this again...stay present!

“I’m visiting my granny in the woods...

Mister Wolf,” she chirped, “She lives not far from here...”

As she twittered on in her singsong fashion, my innate craftiness kicked 19

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in. As I stared at the plump, marbled with fat, little human girl, I fashioned a way to remove her for a few hours... in which I would eat the grandmother.

“Come now little girl, you have time, you’re missing your surroundings. Your Granny might enjoy a fresh bouquet to liven her life, wouldn’t she?” I smiled, well...wolfishly, again.

“Oh, thank you...Mister Wolf. I hope to see you...soon, I guess?” She hesitated.

“Yes, my dear. Sooner than you would think, much sooner.” I looked at her intently and then loped off, toward the cottage.

As I approached, I realized that this was the first time I had ever talked to my meal. It was strange. My thoughts were cut off by the croak of a voice, the Granny!

“Little Red Riding Hood, is that you?

If you want to come in dear, just lift the door bar.”

I pushed the obstruction aside and entered the room. Granny’s gasp of surprise, shock and terror was satisfying; I had my reward for all my troubles. I had my meal, my first of the two. In a single bound, I devoured her whole.

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Only minutes later, the girl appeared at the door, bouquet in hand. I quickly threw on the grandmother’s bonnet, hid under the bed covers and managed to speak in Granny’s cackling croak, “Little Red, is that you? Lift the door bar to come in, would you?”

The thought of another morsel to fill my stomach made me fidget, but I calmed myself. Soon, very soon, I thought, I wouldn’t have to eat for weeks. The girl stood next to the bed, and stared intently at my face, “O, grandmother, what large ears you have!”

“The better to hear you with.” I replied.

“O, grandmother, what great eyes you have!” She said.

“The better to see you with.” I replied.

“O, grandmother, what large hands you have!” She said.

“The better to take hold of you with.”

I replied.

“O, grandmother, what a terrible large mouth you have!” She said, eyes wide.

“The better to devour you!” I replied, and with a single leap I devoured the girl, straightened my bonnet, and fell fast asleep.

It seemed like moments later, but a great searing pain shattered my slumber.

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HELLO LITTLE GIRL

I looked down and saw a hunter, darn their kind, pulling the girl and her grandmother out of my stomach. It was very unsettling.

My last thoughts, as my vision began to fade, were that I despised humans, and that it was so...c-cold...

*A special thanks to The Brothers Grimm for some dialogue and the general plot.

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Xavier de Angoitia ‘16

TO BUILD A FIRE Tigran Mirzayantz ‘16

It was nine o’clock Day had broken cold and grey, exceedingly cold and grey A dim and little traveled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland A sublte gloom that made the day dark It was all pure white, rolling in gentle undulations where the ice jams of the freeze-up had formed It was unbroken white A thousand miles and a half more The mysterious, far reaching hairline trail Fifty degrees below zero meant eightyodd degrees of frost A bite of frost It was ten o’clock Seventy-five below zero Left fork of Henderson Creek Divided from the Indian Creek Country The trail was faint A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed

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Half past twelve Tangled in the underbush about the trunks of several small trees, Deposit of dry firewood Sticks and twigs Seasoned branches Wisps of dry grass The cold of space smote the unprotected tip of the planet A success Six o’clock Four miles an hour Such cold Frozen clear to the bottom The coldest snaps never froze these springs A certain fear of death, dull and oppressive The brief day drew to a close in a long, slow twilight Under the stars, that leaped and danced and shone brightly in the cold sky

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Jonathan Katz ‘15

Sebastian Stern ‘14

MY GRANDMA AND ME Sebastian Stern ‘14

T

wo elderly people, one man and one woman, sauntered out of the slender old building in which they lived. It was a dark afternoon with a penetrating wind that never relented. The couple strode down a dirt path wearing clothing not suited to the sub-freezing temperatures. They continued walking into a dark forest, dominated by trees mangled by the unyielding winds and unfriendly weather. The old couple arrived arm in arm at a clearing.

They sat down on two rocks, keeping an eye on the leaves collecting in small, swirling vortices. As they sat they began to imagine their grandson, dead five years, playing soccer in the clearing. What they witnessed was no longer a frozen plain, but a field of bright green grass, as healthy and alive as their apparitional grandson. They began to cry. Despite their dementia they had a moment of quasi-lucidity, which returned to them the memory of their grandson. They were overwhelmed with joy at seeing him. Their lucidity, while it brought them the memory of their 28

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grandson, also allowed them to remember that he was actually dead. They cried because their grandson had returned and because they knew that he had returned only as a figment of their imagination. As the world turned from dusk to night, the darkness snapped at them like obsidian jaws. Their tears collected in an icy pool at their feet. They died then and there. Perhaps it was a painful death; it certainly was a slow one. I choose to think they died happily, basking in the warm glow of the memory of their beloved grandson.

This dream of mine was brought on by own grandma, who herself has Alzheimer’s.

The picture I’ve drawn is of the rocks the elderly couple would have sat on, had I drawn them in the picture. Behind the rocks is the forest, and in front of them would have been the clearing.

My grandma was likely the elderly woman from the dream. I don’t know who the man might have been, as my grandpa died before I was born. I always had a desire to know my grandmother. My dad tells me stories of how she was vivacious and everyone in the town admired her.

I have longed to see that side of her.

When I look at my drawing I am immediately transported back to my dream, as vivid as the night I saw it. The prevailing 29

MY GRANDMA AND ME

emotion I feel when seeing my art is loss. Loss for my grandmother. My family is very close and I feel that my grandmother is missing. It’s a lonely type of loss. Like a paper cut, it’s small and it isn’t agonizing, but is a mild ache. I used to know her. Once upon a time she was active and healthy.

Most importantly, though, she had that which, I think, makes you a person: her memory. With it she lost the collective series of experiences that defined her.

She lost touch because our shared experiences are what connect us. Much like the painting, she feels empty, the hollow shell of her former self. That is why I didn’t draw the old couple sitting on the rocks. I left something missing, to make evident the emptiness, or loss I associate with it.

I feel disheartened when looking at this drawing, knowing that there is a bounty of memories stored within both my grandmother and the woman in the dream, but that I will never discover either one.

It’s vexing to imagine that behind the placid, seemingly apathetic face must be a witty, charismatic woman like my father describes. It saddens me, the thought of the vanished memories, all the stories and adventures that will die with her.

All the thoughts she never got to share.

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I wonder what she would have told me, what great wisdom she might have spread. A strange question that has nagged at me for a long time is where do memories go? And what happened to my grandma’s memories?

Did they just dissolve into oblivion?

Maybe they vanished to be reclaimed by a higher power.

The third and final feeling that is aroused in me by this drawing is something resembling peace or resolution. The couple from my dream does regain their memory, even if they die soon after. Their happiness as they die, and the memories surging back to them are represented in my art as the beam of light shining upon them. I did not consciously decide to draw the light.

It was a subconscious connection between lucidity and happiness shown as light.

The dream and picture supply me with the comforting thought that my grandmother might be content in her own world, devoid of trouble.

One afterthought lurking in my mind is that she could be more lucid than anyone gives her credit for, and that I could discover this if only I approached her more. But I am hesitant because of what I am likely to find. I’d like to circumvent the disappointment that will ensue when she doesn’t remember me, so I find myself keeping my distance. Recently, it has been like 31

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talking to a stranger. Our conversations are forced because I find myself unsure of what to say. Additionally I don’t want to see her anymore because she is a petrifying reminder of what might become of my dad. Alzheimer’s has been found to be an inherited abnormality. I immediately jump to how it might befall my sister and me. However unlikely it may be, the chance that it is a genealogical trait is still a scary thought to bear.

My grandmother serves as a sickening glimpse of the fate that might await me. It doesn’t speak too kindly about my character that I am preoccupied with myself, but it is the ugly truth. A gloomy truth personified by the dark, gnarled trees.

The real value in this art is the dream behind it. Without feeling, this piece of art is just pigment on paper. I connect the colors to make images that carry emotional worth, much like joining the stars to find meaning in constellations, which would otherwise be white dots on an infinite black canvas. To anyone else the drawing might appear as simple as a spooky forest, cartoonish, if not a bit creepy. I have imbued it with actual emotions. It is a painful memento of my evolving feelings surrounding the tragedy afflicting my grandmother.

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WHO IS CINESRA? Benjamin Edelson ‘16 Luca Matts ‘16 Conner woke up in a sweat. He looked at his hands. They were changing colors, and felt very hot. He felt scared, but also quite excited.

Conner wondered what was wrong with him. (Now his hands were smoking!) The only feeling he could feel was fear. He yelled for his adopted parents and they came hurrying into the room.

Gasping with the pain, he told his parents what had happened. Instead of looking concerned, they were happy and looked a little evil. “What’s wrong?” his “parents” asked. “N-nothing,” he replied. His parents ran into the next room looking for the phone. “Who are you calling?

What’s going on?” he asked. “Nothing,” his parents told him. “Go back to bed!” Reluctantly, he walked back to his room and flopped back onto the bed. Through the closed door he heard his parents talking. “We must call Cinesra at once!

He’ll be so pleased- Connor’s discovering his powers!”

When Connor woke up, his parents weren’t there.

He checked all around, but couldn’t find a trace of them. Eventually, he gave up his search and went to school. In his first class, he met up with Nyle, his best friend. “How’s it going, bro?” asked Nyle. Connor quickly walked to science, ignoring Nyle. He didn’t want to talk to anybody before he found out what was wrong with him. In science, their teacher announced that they were going to start to study the periodic table of the elements in preparation for their end-of the year presentation at the Science Festival. They were paired into partners.Each partnership had to research two elements. He was paired with Nyle, and they were researching Strontium and Xenon. Conner started looking up information on strontium.

Curiously, he read about how strontium is in fireworks and changes colors when burned. He thought to himself how coincidental it was that his hands were changing colors earlier that morning. One thing that stuck in his mind was that the discoverer of strontium, Adair Crawford, lives just down the street from him in this town of Strontian, Scotland…

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After school, Connor decided to visit Crawford’s house. It was a windy, stormy day, and leaves blew around him in the crisp fall air. Crawford’s house was unlike anyone else’s on the street; it was dark and forbidding.

Not wanting to enter, but knowing he had to, Connor knocked on the door. A bushy, white beard appeared in the doorway. Then Connor adjusted his focus, and realized that there was an old, wizened man behind the beard. “Well, I’ve been expecting you for quite some time now,” the old man said.

“W-what are you talking about?” stuttered Connor.

“Your powers. Haven’t you noticed them yet?

Come in, you can’t stand out there all day.”

Regretting that he ever came to this house, Connor stepped inside. “Are you Adair Crawford?”

Conner asked. The old man was now bustling around, making tea.

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WHO IS CINESRA?

“No, I’m the President of the United States.

WHO DO YOU THINK I AM?” he shouted.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford, sir. I was just wondering about strontium.”

“Sit down. What have you been wondering? Or, I should say, experiencing. No, don’t tell me.

I’ve been watching you with inside eyes.”

“What do you mean?” Connor asked him.

“What do think I mean? Haven’t you worked this out yet? Hasn’t Nyle told you? He works for me as your protector. Well, not really for me. For the Council of Elements. His powers are being able to shine extremely bright light, melt into liquids at 111° and can even,” Crawford paused mysteriously, “turn invisible at times.”

He said this all very fast. In the middle of trying to take it all in, Conner noticed a puddle of dark liquid at Crawford’s feet. “Oh, Mr. Crawford, you spilled some of your tea on the rug.”

“If you really think that’s tea, you’re even more of an idiot than I thought. THAT’S NYLE, aka Xenon aka 54. And the last time I checked, tea doesn’t glow in the dark.” Then Nyle, to Connor’s astonishment, seemed to rise out the ground.

Connor gave a yelp of surprise and jumped back. “How-what?!” he spluttered.

“I see that you are sadly ignorant,” commented Crawford dryly. “Well, let me start from the beginning. Long ago, all people were elements, immortal, powerful, and wise. But the peace 36

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and prosperity could not last. One extremely powerful element Arsenic, gifted with all its powers, felt that there were too many element superheroes in the world, and not enough nonelements. So, after he graduated from his element training, he started a cell, in secret at first, elements that protested against the training of more elements. In his heart of hearts, the leader knew that all he wanted to do was to gain power, and take control of the globe. Well, he waged war against us, and he won most of the battles, for our troops were out of practice and were caught unaware.

When he finally succeeded in creating more NonElements, he realized that he had made a grave mistake. The Non-Elements were now attacking him as well as the Council of Elements. With the combined powers of the Council of Elements and the Non-Elements attacking him, his army finally dispersed and broke. But he still lived. In the end, Carbon, head of the Council of Elements had to confront him in a final duel. Carbon defeated him, but hesitated with the final blow. In that split second, Arsenic removed Carbon’s head.

Killed him. Now the Elements are scattered and defeated, but Arsenic doesn’t exactly rule. He does not dare try the power of the Non-Elements, but still half-rules creates mayhem everywhere.

Today, most Non-Elements don’t even know that any Elements exist!” he finished sadly.

“Well, Mr. Crawford, the real reason for my coming here is that I wanted to talk to you.

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About my…newfound powers.” Conner told him. “Do you mind if we talk in…private?” He gestured towards Nyle.

“No, not at all,” responded Nyle. “You don’t mind if I…quicken things up?”

“Of course not!” said Conner, eager to see more of Nyle’s powers. With that, Nyle sank into the rug, becoming a puddle of liquid on the ground, which glided out the door.

“So, young Conner, what were you wondering?” asked Crawford gently.

“Well, in the morning, when I woke up, my hands were changing colors and smoking. During science class, I happened to be researching strontium, and I saw that when it’s burned, it changes colors, just like my hands.” He paused for breath. “I thought to come to you, being the discoverer of strontium and all.”

“Well,” Crawford said, “you thought right, coming to talk to me. I was on the Council of Elements, after all. As one of the oldest and most powerful elders, I was the one to go on the quest to discover strontium, so the Council could produce more elements. Your powers are special; being a Strontium is a chance many would die for. You can shoot fireworks out of your hands, you can burn different colors, but you do melt at 777 C.” After thirty more minutes of discussing his new powers, Conner left Crawford’s house and went back to his own. When he got home, he could not find his adopted parents anywhere. As in the 38

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morning, they seemed to have disappeared. But when he reached the living room, he let out a scream. Sitting on the couch, as cool as could be, eating potato chips and humming, was a man.

He was not an ordinary man. He was dressed in black flowing robes. He had a small black goatee and moustache, and he was very pale. The worst of all were his eyes. They were the deepest black, like all of the despair in the world was contained in those sockets. It gave one the feeling that there were no eyes there at all. A tinge of red around the rims topped it all off.

His nails were long, like short claws. When he moved, he seemed to glide more than walk.

“W-what are you doing here?” asked Conner.

“Get out of my house!”

When he got a response, it made shivers go down his spine. “My dear boy, this is no longer your house. From now on, it belongs to…” he paused, surveying Conner closely, “me.

And my followers. In the future, this house, not to mention you, shall be most helpful to me. I have always found followers to help me, and weapons.” From his pocket, he produced a grayish-white lump of what looked like metal.

“This little baby is much, much more powerful that it looks. When it is split, it bursts into flames. Can you guess what element it is? Well, I suppose you don’t know yet.. It’s Zirconium, also known as Zr, and 40. I used this to corrupt the Elements, and kill many superheroes.”

“What? Kill superheroes?” Conner was aghast.

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Then it dawned on him. “You’re Arsenic!”

“Wow, great job, Conner!” Arsenic said in a baby voice. “ I’m Arsenic! Much more powerful then you are, not even being trained and all.

Well, I suppose I do have a weakness. But all elements do. I turn into a gas and evaporate at 614 C and melt at 817 C. I can shoot poison, you know.” Then he suddenly melted into poison on the ground, which turned into a blue flame, then morphed into a green snake which bared it’s fangs and slithered toward Conner.

“RUN!” shouted a new voice, and in a burst of fireworks, a multi-colored shield formed around Conner; Arsenic bounced off it. Conner whirled around, and beheld Crawford, in a whirling cloud of white smoke as he shot another firework at Arsenic, which was deflected.

“YOUR DARE TEST MY POWER!” roared Arsenic, and the fire grew still, enveloping Crawford, and blasted him backwards while he screamed and thrashed, and slammed into the far wall, not moving.

“Run, Conner,” Crawford murmured feebly.

Conner needed no telling twice. He ran, trying to disappear and reappear somewhere else, like Crawford had done, but he couldn’t. The whole house was falling apart, and then suddenly, he felt a hand grab his arm, and he was whirling through the air, feeling like he was being ripped apart from inside. And then it was over.

He fell over feeling dizzy. Through the haze of pain, he saw Nyle leaning over him. “What 40

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happened to Crawford?” asked Nyle, shaking him roughly.

“H-he was fighting Arsenic…losing,” Conner said weakly.

Five years later.

Conner has been trained. Crawford has been lost for a long time.

Nyle and Conner must save him.

“We have to go on the mission that Crawford told me about,” said Nyle matter-of-factly. “We have to discover a spy who’s been passing information to Arsenic for years now.”

“Nyle, do you know who Cinesra is? I heard my parents talking about him before all of…this happened.” He gestured vaguely around him.

“Cinesra…I’m sure I’ve heard the name before, but I can’t place it. Anyway, we’d better get going. Hold on now.” He held out his arm

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again. Reluctantly Conner got on. Then that same sensation happened, being compressed and smashed backwards though space. Then they landed on a dark road at twilight. “Where are we?” he asked Nyle.

“Lowest street you can go in Manhattan. I’ve thought for many months now that someone was hiding here.” They walked for another half hour down the dark road, lonely and scared. “Hey, what’s over there?” Nyle broke the silence, pointing to a shadowy section of the street. In fact, it was unnaturally dark. While they were looking, Conner’s adopted father ran out of the shadow.

“Conner! Are you all right? What’s happened?

Who’s that? Oh, Nyle. Good day to you.” He seemed nervous.

“Dad!” Conner felt relieved. “What were you doing in there?”

“Oh, this and that.” During this conversation, Conner noticed that Nyle had gone rigid, staring at Conner’s dad. “You! You! You’re the traitor!

Californium!”

“Oh. So you figured that out. It took longer than we, or I, suspected.” His father looked cold and hard now.

“What are you talking about, Dad?” Conner asked him. “Of course you’re not a traitor!

Nyle, what are you talking about?”

“Yes, I’m the traitor. Conner, I know that this will come as a shock to you, but… I’m Californium. I can shoot radioactive acid and detect my opponent’s weapons, disarming them.

Which I’m about to do to you right now.” Without warning, a loud BANG blew Conner’s silvery-white

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yttrium gadget out of his pocket, landing in Californium’s outstretched hand. He quickly heated the air to 3340 C, so the lump of yttrium became a gas and floated up into the air.

“NO! Hey! That’s my heat shield! I had to go through a lot of nasty and dangerous adventures with Nyle here to acquire that!” Conner was furious at his adopted father for doing that.

“NOW!” roared Nyle, and he disappeared. Conner shot a firework out of his hand at his father.

Even though he was confused about his dad being a traitor, he knew to follow Nyle’s advice in times like this. If Nyle said to attack his father, then Conner would do it.

His firework was deflected by a blast of radioactivity, which sent Conner staggering to his knees, winded. His only thought was: Get away from the radioactivity or fight it.

He decide to fight it. So he formed a firework shield, and burst into multicolored flames. He flew at Californium, who responded with an even more powerful blast of radioactivity. Suddenly, an extremely bright light flashed out from behind Conner. Nyle! Californium staggered, and the power of his radioactivity decreased by seventy percent.

“AHHHH!” he screamed, his hands covering his eyes. Then he screamed even louder as one of Conner’s fireworks hit him, showering him in a blast of hot, brightly colored sparks. As soon as the light ceased, he yelled out. “Master, please! I tried! I TRIED! DO NOT PUNISH ME!” “You are in no position to tell me what I

WHO IS CINESRA?

can and can’t do. I sent you on a mission, and a very important one, I might add, and,” the new voice paused dramatically, “you failed.”

Conner recognized this voice. It was the highly polished, dangerous, cruel, and chilling voice of Arsenic. Over the years, Conner had had several nasty incidents with Arsenic, and they were enough to tell him that you should never, ever, mess with him. He was the most powerful living element on Earth. He had destroyed the great Council of Elements long ago, leaving only scattered Elements around. He had taken over, but in secret. Now, he was going to reveal himself to the world. “Now, little boys, why don’t you stop fighting and submit to me?

Ah!” he tripped as Conner shot a firework at him. At that moment, a lot of things happened at once. Conner and Nyle began fighting Arsenic

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at the same time, while Californium moaned in the shadows surrounding them. Even with the combined powers of Nyle and Conner fighting him, Arsenic was more than a match for the two boys.

Conner burst into flames and shot towards Arsenic like a bullet, while Nyle shot flashes of blue light at him. Deflecting both, Arsenic laughed and turned into a poison dragon, charging Conner. Conner turned into a fire phoenix. As they circled, jabbing at each other, Nyle appeared here and there, temporarily blinding Arsenic while he and Conner fought.

“The fight is over, boys!” Arsenic laughed.

“After I have killed you both, I will hunt down Crawford, kill him as well, then start taking control over the known Universe!” He had slashed Conner on the wing, but Conner had transformed into a cheetah (still bearing the injury, of course). At that moment, two things happened at once: A cloud of white smoke was gathering near them, growing bigger and bigger, until Adair Crawford stepped out of it, looking bloody but otherwise strong. Californium jumped up and engaged him in a duel. Radioactivity flew from Californium towards Crawford, who deflected it in a burst of fireworks and flames. There was no time to watch this display as Conner and Nyle were forced to engage with Arsenic again, who kept them hard-pressed.

Ten minutes later, there was a yell from Californium and Crawford’s side of the battle.

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Conner quickly glanced over, then looked away.

The top half of Californium’s body appeared to be blown off, leaving a pair of legs to fall to the street.

“NOOOOOOO!” screamed Arsenic, and with a blast of poison that Conner barely deflected, he sent both boys flying through the air and smashed them onto the street. Winded, dazed, Conner looked around for Nyle. He couldn’t find him.

“Nyle?” he called. But there was no time for talking. Arsenic advanced on him. “Adair!

Help!” he cried, but it was futile; Crawford had somehow been fed a small portion of poison, and even though he wasn’t dead, he was coming very, very close. “Nyle?” He realized that he was alone in this endeavor: killing Arsenic.

“Fine. I accept that I am going to die, but tell me, Arsenic, who is Cinesra? Because now that I know that my adopted father was working for you

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(and my mother too, but I assume she’s dead), I can tell you that he mentioned that name the first day I discovered my powers. So…” “Can you not guess, youngling?” Arsenic was now looking amused.

“I would prefer an answer to a guess,” Conner replied.

“Very well. Cinesra is…I.” “What!? You?” “Indeed. Haven’t you seen it? It’s Arsenic spelled backwards! But now, enough talk. I want to get on with killing you.” But he never did. At that moment, Nyle flew out from nowhere and flashed his brightest light yet, then fell back as if exhausted by the effort. “You DARE!” roared Cinesra, and as the air was splattered with poison, Nyle opened his mouth, trying to shout at Conner, but the words never reached

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him. He sucked in some of the flying poison, deflecting the rest. “NO! NYLE!” Conner called out to him, but to no avail. Nyle dropped like a stone onto the pavement, dead before he hit the ground. Conner knew it, but he didn’t want to believe it, he was mad at Nyle for letting himself get hit with Arsenic’s poison. Crawford jumped up too, but fell down again, weakened.

“YOU TOO!” Arsenic cried, looking at Crawford, and the poison cut through the air like a knife through water. Conner was ready for the attack against his former teacher this time, though.

He formed a fire shield around Crawford, but the poison slid right through it. He stared at Cinesra, amazed. That was all of his power. A second later, he felt himself being immensely tired, then he heard Crawford’s scream of pain, blood splattering the alleyway, and he knew that Adair Crawford, his friend and companion, was dead. Then he felt nothing at all but pain, lots of pain, it would consume him, he must hide himself, not in this ruined alley, but somewhere else. He was gone, just a shadow, not dead, but death would be a cinch compared to this terrible, horrible fate. He felt his spirit, just a ghost, rise out of his body and float into the night sky. He could not stop himself, just scream silently as the all-consuming pain swept over him, and only watch helplessly as Cinesra removed his body’s head with a sword conjured out of nowhere, and took his place as king of the known universe.

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MYSTERY STORY Isaac Parlin ‘16

T

ap…Tap…Tap… Nigel absently followed the water slowly dripping down the rusted iron gutter that coiled itself around the school. Tap…Tap… Water was much more interesting than listening to some old woman ramble on about things he had learned before the other boys could count to ten. He knew it all; school was like a leash to him, and when he tried to race forward in his studies it yanked him back hard. His grey eyes flicked up to catch Collin’s, who sat twiddling his thumbs three rows away. Collin. He knew he shouldn’t know his name, but since they both went to the same school he did anyway. Tap…Tap… The minutes slowly ticked by.

As Nigel fumbled with the key to his small townhouse, Ferry stuck his pointed white ferret nose out of Nigel’s scarf, his little brown eyes peering into his master’s. The ferret went everywhere with him, even to school where he hid in Nigel’s baggy clothes. Finally, the 50

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lock clicked and he stepped through the doorway. “Home,” he called, shrugging off his backpack and hanging his thick winter coat on the rack.

Some noise came from upstairs, and a moment later Nigel’s mother appeared.

“Oh, hello, sweetie! How was your day?”

Nigel raised his eyebrows. “What do I usually say?”

“Well, ‘average,’ I suppose.”

“Yeah. Average. Why are you home?”

“Oh.” Mom tossed back her hair. “You know that case, with the ‘killer’ and stuff? Well, today at court, proof was put forth. Solved by the head of Governmental Crime Research himself!

They let me go home early. Can you believe it—a seven month lawsuit!”

Nigel tried to hide his satisfaction.

Solved by the head of Governmental Crime Research himself, she’d said. He snorted.

“Cool. Well, I got a lot of work. I’ll be in my room.”

She smiled. “Sure, sure, you do whatever you have to do. I’ll be down here making dinner.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Mom.” Ferry wiggled himself out of Nigel’s shirt and clambered up his chest to sit on his shoulder. Nigel trudged up the mahogany staircase, turned left towards his 51

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room—and froze. His legs went numb, icy fingers softly running their tips along his spine. Instead of beating faster, his heart stopped dead. He had felt this before, exactly seven months ago. For directly under the door to his bedroom, barely noticeable in the evening gloom, was an inch of dark black tape.

Shakily, Nigel released his breath and shuffled towards the door. Stooping down, he slowly peeled the tape from the oak floorboards, just as he was supposed to do. Then, with unsteady hands, he twisted the doorknob.

His room was small and simple. A little bed squatted in the corner by the window, at its foot a tall, grey file cabinet. On the left wall was his desk, holding nothing but pencils and paper. And on the right stood his very special tower of dice. Every day, since he turned three years old, Nigel had added one die a day. Now that he was almost eleven years old, that was 2,919 small white dice, the numbers perfectly aligned in complex turrets and spires.

But the importance of the tower lay within.

Nigel approached the structure, trying to steady his breathing. On the far side of the dice tower was a tiny hole, 52

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opening to a tunnel. Gently scooping Ferry from where he now perched on his head, he cupped him beside the hole and whispered, “Go on, little boy.” The ferret considered him for a moment, and then, very delicately, continued down the tunnel. After a moment, he returned, in his mouth a silver key.

Nigel again picked up the rodent.

“Good boy,” he said quickly, and then turned to the file cabinet that stood next to the tower. Taking the key, he opened the bottom shelf with mixture of excitement and apprehension. What can it be this time? And, just as the black tape had told him, within lay a flat manila envelope, a big red CONFIDENTIAL stamped at an angle across the front.

Before he opened it, Nigel locked his door. He carried the envelope to his desk, where he calmly broke the seal. He swallowed once more, and then, sliding out the papers within, he read: Dear #22, We hope this letter finds you doing well, and that you remembered to peel the tape, for we have officially opened another case. Yesterday, on Tuesday, January 14th, 2008, there was a large-scale disappearance.

In less than one minute, approximately 1.5 million children from across the United States of America were reported to be missing. We do not know if it was kidnapping or planned mass homicide, but there are no bodies to be found. We will meet in the Crown tomorrow, Thursday, January 16th, at noon precisely. As always, do whatever you must to be there. Further information will be discussed. Stay safe and watch your back. We cannot afford to lose the brightest young twenty-six minds in the nation.

Good Luck, The Alphabet

Felix Schloendorff ‘16

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A thin, haggard face. Long strands of white hair slashing across the forehead, skin pale as paper, and baggy clothes bleached to match. A snowy ferret on the shoulder, the line between fur and skin where it brushed the boy’s cheek indistinguishable. And lastly, the eyes, the silver eyes, bright but drawn, bags giving them a worn appearance, and wide with fright.

Nigel’s own stark reflection stared back at him from the bathroom mirror. His first thought had been, What the heck? , and then the paper had fluttered to the ground from lifeless fingers, his eyes staring but sightless as he stumbled out the door into the bathroom, the cold tiles icy on his bare feet.

And now his reflection, a sight he could almost not recognize. Since when have I become so . . . gaunt? He saw himself every night as he brushed his teeth, or washed his hands, or whenever else he was in the bathroom. He had seen himself not ten minutes ago in the window to his room, with the light outside already beginning to fade. But the boy that returned Nigel’s haunted gaze was something different, a creature of panic and dread.

It is remarkable how drastically one letter can change a person, he pondered

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as he closed his eyes. Words still flashed behind his lids. 1.5 million . . . one minute . . . kidnapping . . . homicide . . . missing . . . children . . . He could see it all—calls flooding into the stations, frantic officers, sirens, shouts . . . missing, missing, MISSING . . . He opened his eyes. The boy in the mirror did, too.

In his short two years at the Alphabet, he had never once encountered a case that he couldn’t solve. He was Nigel.

He was Number 22. He was SilverEyes, the best, the smartest of the team. And every time, approaching the situation with logic and determination, he had managed to put the criminals in chains. But this . . . this was something different. It simply did not make any sense. How could one and a half million children be reported missing from around the entire country in under sixty seconds?!

Suddenly he was scared. Watch your back, the letter had warned. He took an inadvertent peek over his shoulder. The door to his room stood ajar, shadows playing on the walls of his room as the lights of cars passed by. He shivered.

I can’t do this, he thought dully. He knew it was the truth. There was no way he was going to triumph in a million years. He rested his elbows on the 56

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marble sink and put his head in his hands, fingers running through soft hair as the stranger in the glass mimicked his movements. I just . . . I’m only ten years old, I can’t, I’m so afraid . . .

Never before had he wished more that he could run to his parents for help, close his eyes in his mother’s warm embrace, listen to the soft cooing of the voice he so loved, revive the innocence that he had been so denied by the Alphabet and by the criminals of the world. But she must never be aware.

The sharp prick of claws digging into his scalp broke his brooding. He gently scooped Ferry off his head, removing the delicate paws from his hair where the rodent stubbornly refused to let go. “Come on, little guy.”

Dinner was still being prepared in the kitchen, but Nigel told his mother he wasn’t hungry. He was almost going to leave when he remembered—As always, do whatever it takes to be there. He would have to be at the Crown tomorrow, which meant staying home from school, which meant being “sick.” He’d done it every time a new case was opened—Collin once joked he had stuck his head in the microwave and called it a fever.

So Nigel hugged his stomach, hunched over, a looked at his mother with a

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pained expression. “Oh, Mom. By the way, I’m feeling really bad. I don’t know, I just got this ache during school, and it hasn’t gone away. Can I stay home tomorrow?”

She was concerned, then skeptical, and then concerned again as she told him it was fine, but she would be at work tomorrow. And Dad wouldn’t be home from London for over a week, as a possible investor had proposed a new deal, so he would be alone, and she was concerned, and there would be nobody in the house, all alone, so concerned . . . Mothers, he thought. But he needed to leave the house.

Ten minutes later, he lay in bed. The stars hung in the sky above him, cold and uncaring and beautiful. The winter chill slowly crept through the cotton sheets, and Nigel slept shivering, Ferry curled around his neck. And then, gradually, his eyes opened, more silver than ever in the moonlight streaking through the window. He lay there for a moment, on his back, and soon a diamond tear, sparkling and wet, snaked its way down the side of his face and into his ear. Yet there was no one there to see it but Ferry, the dice tower, the stars, and the moon.

Seagulls wheeled over the water, their raucous cries filling the air as 59

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the sea spewed spray into the sky and waves crashed against the stone wall surrounding Battery Park.

Nigel breathed in deeply, relishing the dry wind and the clean, salty tang of the harbor. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless blue abyss, casting rainbows on the water where it hit the showers of droplets leaping to the air. He loved the sea, with its waves and its fish and its wonder, the horizon a steady landmark that he could never quite reach, beckoning for wild adventure. He smiled despite himself as Ferry slipped out the neck of his coat and clambered along the railing, squeaking and squealing with delight at the splendor of the day and at the gulls swooping and diving high above. Across the water, Lady Liberty stood tall and proud, her torch shining gold in the sunlight and her robes seeming to billow in the wind.

Once, Nigel would have been awed by the sight, by the majesty of her bearing.

But now she seemed ominous, the spikes of her Crown long and sharp, the fire in her hand warning, Stay away.

Nigel had blearily opened his eyes at exactly 10:57 am, leaving one hour and three minutes to get to the Crown. He had thrown on his bland white clothes, scarfed down a quick bowl of cereal, and

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caught a cab, saying, “Battery Park, please, by the ferries,” with Mom safe at work, Dad across the Atlantic, and nobody to know he had ever left. And now here he was, with exactly seventeen minutes to go—for the Alphabet, you were never late.

With the time constraint in mind, he called Ferry back to his coat and headed for the ferries.

There was a long line for tickets— which was surprising on a Friday—but Nigel discreetly ducked under the ropes and skirted the throng. Guarding the gangplank to the present ship, the U.S.S. Liberty, was the fattest, ugliest woman Nigel had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Her eyes were dead and droopy, her chin a puzzle of sagging folds that jiggled every time she opened her small, thin-lipped mouth to release a braying cry that Nigel supposed was English. She was round as a bowling ball, her stomach horizontally pleated to the extent to which Ferry could have crept into the trenches of her gut without her noticing. She smelled of rot.

Nigel slipped into the line and waited for his turn as the donkeynoise creature scanned the tourists’ tickets. Two people ahead of him, a

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tall, heavily built man with a short grey beard was arguing with the Donkey, waving his hands in wild gesticulation as any words of protest were drowned by her formidable bray. Eventually, he tried to slip past, but her girth proved to clog the entrance snug as a cork, and he backed away and left. Nobody was getting onto that ship without a ticket.

But Nigel would.

As he stood in front of her full mass, he quietly handed her a slip of red paper drawn from his pocket, looking as normal as any other ticket from afar.

The lady glanced down and read the sharpie scribbled on the front: #22.

She rotated her eyes upward without moving her head, a toothy grin slowly spreading across her face, her chompers like thirty-two small graves spaced wide apart. Nigel felt sorry for her.

Without a word she let him aboard the ferry.

The ride to Liberty Island was a wonder. Nigel chose a seat on top, as far to the edge of the ship as he could get. He stuck his hands over the side, savoring the feel of the salty spray, at this height a soft mist that soon had his fingers dripping with moisture. The boat skimmed across the waves, the sun

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Jonathan Katz ‘15

MYSTERY STORY

on the water below looking like cameras flashing from a stadium. Behind him, the tourists looked just the same.

It seemed he had just boarded when the ferry lurched to a slow halt and putted into the docks of the island.

The Statue glared disapprovingly down at him, giving him one last chance to flee. Tension coiled within his stomach, swirling butterflies replaced by the cold stone of dread.

He stood at the base, Her Ladyship looming ominously overhead. He craned his neck backward to study her Crown, and suddenly everything came rushing back, and he found himself pondering his past, and that of the Alphabet’s, and of the Statue’s, and how he had come here, and why...

He remembered the people most, terrible memories, horrible scarring memories that he wished he could forget. He was three years old, and he was crying, and his mother was, too, as she hugged him close and tried to shield his eyes from the television. They fell like rain, the people. Black specks leaping from the building as it burned behind them, collapsing in on itself floor by floor, crashing and crumbling in silence on the screen. It was rain. Black rain.

The date was September 11, 2001.

New York was in shock, a frenzy full of 64

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tension and tears and wounds that would take long, if ever, to heal. Suddenly airports were shutting down, security ramped to the max, the city a place of smog, rubble, and dust. And with it, too, came the birth of the Alphabet.

His name was Ron J. Anthony. He was an elderly man dedicated to the betterment of his country, ambitious, and he was looking for a place to station a secretive governmental society of genius-level crime solvers—the classic story. But where?

Come September, the society was still searching. They didn’t have the wealth or the leisure to construct a highsecurity building or underground meeting place. They were stuck.

And then came the attacks. Terribly tragic, no doubt, yet they proved to give Ron J. Anthony the perfect chance.

Strings were pulled, money was exchanged, and on the following day, New York announced that the Statue of Liberty and Liberty Island would be officially closed due to the late terrorist strike.

Perfectly plausible, and yet the work of Ron J. Anthony himself.

After renovation on the Crown, the Base of the statue reopened to the public on August 3, 2004. And yet the society met right above their heads, as

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those beneath them walked oblivious to any activity above. It was the perfect spot. If anyone ever suspected that the organization existed, why would they look in one of the most commonly visited monuments in the country?

And then, something happened. Something very strange, but brilliant. The society came to a case they couldn’t solve. No matter how hard they thought, putting the brightest minds in the nation on the job, there simply was no answer. And then Anthony had it—the most breakthrough, original, and revolutionary idea of the century. Yes, they needed to think outside the box. But they needed someone who really could, whose brain did it without thinking. And so that night, as a test, Anthony told his eight-year-old daughter off-handedly about the case.

She had the answer within seconds.

The next day, Anthony immediately put his plan into action. From then on, they still had the CIA, and the FBI, and dozens of other smaller, unnamed organizations. But then, every once in a while, when they came to something that didn’t make sense, they would rely on their elite team—the Alphabet.

A test had been issued, right along with the other nation-wide ERB’s. Nigel remembered it clearly to this day, taking it when he was nine years old.

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He had felt scared—to say that he had answered an eighth of them correctly would have been an exaggeration. And yet what he did not know was that, out of the country’s children ages seven through twelve, he had also done the best. Suddenly, he found himself moving from Miami to New York, and receiving the letter that had been addressed to him and him alone, and most of all being told to never tell his parents. And then his first meeting in the Crown—he was so young then, and afraid. There were twenty-five other children with him, Nigel being the twenty-sixth. And that day, it was nicknamed, because of the twenty-six letters, the Alphabet.

And then Ron J. Anthony had died. Nigel didn’t remember crying, for he hadn’t well known the man. But he did recall his first encounter with the new boss, a man named Orr. He had been ten at the time, and was almost eleven now.

The memories still burned like fire, of that fateful September day, and of the test, and the letter, and the Crown.

Still burned like fire and ice. He supposed he would never forget them ...

All of this flashed through Nigel’s mind in moments as he stared bitterly at the Statue’s face. In a way, he wished it had never happened. Yet he knew he must continue.

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Inside the Base, it was crowded and noisy. Nigel ignored the throng and headed straight past the Gift Shop towards the east wall. There, a security guard stood in front of a metal door, one hand casually resting on a pistol at his belt. For all the public knew, it could have been the janitors’ supply closet. But Nigel approached the man quietly and without exaggerated stealth.

“Number Twenty-two.”

He spoke the words softly, and with intent. The guard didn’t act at all secretive or nervous. He shifted his weight ever so slightly to the right and allowed Nigel to slip past the barelyopen door. He then let it shut with a soft click.

Brushing his hair from his eyes, Nigel began his way up the long spiral staircase to the Crown. The stairs were wooden, and squealed in protest with every step he took. Frankly, Nigel thought they were practically falling apart. But they never had.

Mixed emotions began to roil within his gut as he stood at the top, in front of another metal door. Beyond, he knew would lie the Alphabet. Yes, he felt nervous, and his palms were slightly wet, but there was something more. Something wasn’t right. He shook his head to clear it, and then opened 68

Matteo de Donato ‘16

THE OLD BOY Jack Salomon ‘62

T

hey said a Boy was coming. They said we must be good.

They said we shouldn’t shame the school, and was that understood?!?

They said the Boy was elderly they said he wasn’t thin, But paunchy, gray, and spectacled, with liver-spotted skin.

This Boy was once a student here, although it sounds absurd, Before there were computers, before there was Big Bird.

“So don’t complain,” they said, “and please just show him some respect, eh?

Be Strong and upright boys. Remember, fortiter et recte!”

We asked, “What kind of boy is this?

One of those ancient codgers?

The kind who still remembers when New York had Brooklyn Dodgers?

And why’s he coming to our class, this Boy on shuffling feet?

Can he be found on Facebook? Does he know how to Tweet?”

“He’s going to read some poetry,” they said, “so don’t just stare.

But listen to him read his stuff, and 71

do not twirl your chair.

This Boy was once a student here, as you have heard us mention.

So be polite or you will find yourself put on detention.”

We heard him read from miles away, this man they called Old Boy. The stuff was funny, we admit, and gave us quite some joy.

But mostly we just watched him, ‘cause as far as we could see, That strange Old Boy could very well some day be you or me.

Dr. Jack Salomon, Allen-Stevenson ‘62, earned a Ph.D. in English Literature at the University of Pennsylvania. He taught English and theater at Pacific University in Oregon before making a career change and becoming a financial advisor. Jack is married and has three children and two grandchildren. He is an avid admirer of Shakespeare and of Gilbert & Sullivan, and he enjoys helping students learn to appreciate theater and poetry. Jack visited A-S earlier this year and prepared this poem for the boys.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I

n addition to our donors, we’d like to give special acknowledgment to members of the A-S community who went above and beyond to make this a reality. Pete Haarmann, our once and current sixth grade English teacher, was our champion within the school, spearheading the effort throughout the year to get students and teachers on board.

His passion and dedication kept the project alive.

Anthony Kapp, Director of Alumni Relations, was instrumental in making the publication a reality. His sage advice and consistent help proved invaluable.

There were many others involved, and of course no A-S endeavor would be complete without mention of David Kersey - who came up with the idea for an honorary literary publication in our first brainstorm session. A big thank you to all!

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DONORS

Zach Levy ‘00 Memorial Fund

NOBEL SOCIETY Michael & Helen Levy, Lawrence D. Hite, Richard & Denise Mulcahy PULITZER CIRCLE Zeynep Eken, Helen & Howard Freedman PEN/FAULKNER FELLOW Ayse & Necdet Bezmen, Meredith Blank, Joan & Charles Blanksteen, Nermin Esen, The Ken Pollak Family, Fran Lippa & Rick Rohn, Beth & Bob Sheehan MAN BOOKER BOARD Josh Aghravi, Dan Friedman & Michelle Andelman, Anonymous, Virginia Volante Appel, Berin Bezmen, Jonathan Blanksteen ‘00, Lauren & Ryan Borg, Joshua Chaffee, Anne Chellas, Ian M. Dana ‘97, Maya Deshmukh, Matthew Dresher, Jess Eisen, Kerim Eken ‘00, Allison Feldman, Ginevra Figg, Alex Friedman, Alex Funk ‘00, Lara & Adam Gillman, Jordan Gillman, Paul & Renee Haas, Steven Handwerker ‘03, Scott Handwerker ‘00, Debbie Cooper & Kevin Handwerker, Arielle Haves, 74

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Tim Howell, Dana, Jeff & Matt Hynick, Lauren Wood & Conor Izzett, Tim Kirby ‘00, Jon Klebanoff ‘00, Susan Hirschhorn & Arthur Klebanoff, Brian Lamb, Izzie Lerer, Ethan Levy, Adam Levy ‘97, Erin Levy, Jacqui & Ron Liberman, Caitlin Mulcahy, John Murray, John Rosen, Rachel Rosenberg, Emily Rudman, Benjy Sarlin ‘00, Kate Schlosstein, Megan & Midhat Serbagi ‘97, Will Sheehan, Dillon K. Springer ‘00, Joshua Steinberg, Christopher Stone, Deborah Forte & Peter Stone, Nicholas Tapert ‘00, Cameron Tung, Kevin VanLandingham, Melissa Wilner, Rachel & Jared Zolna NEWBURY CLUB Anonymous, Anonymous, Jamie Bass, John Benedetto, Talin Bezmen, Jamie Neuthaler & Aaron Books, Lauren Appel & Karyn Brownson, Jordan Cerf, Katy Cheng, Susan Crile, Serra Eken, Lauren Freedman, Louise & Howie Freilich, Elaine & Arthur Friedman, Claire Friedman, Mike Fung, Lauren & Brian Koffler, Ben Krauss, Abby Leber, Josh Levy, McFly Levy, Ben Lewis, Tal Madanes, Lisa Ray, Katie Robin, Alex Rosario ‘00, Samantha Steinberg, Carter Stone, Damian VanCamp ‘00, Jas Wagstaff, Jeff Warren, Melissa & Jared Weil, Jessica Zanan 75

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SUPPORTERS Jonathan Aghravi, Beth Appel, Guillermo Artiles, Jessica Barrett, Cliff Bayer, Caitlin & Eric Bitzegaio, Ari Bornstein, David Braily, Jay Caretsky, Ben Carron Greg Cayne, Brook Cohen, Sarah Claspell, Leila Cohan-Miccio, Matt Cutler, Andrew L. Daidone, Ashley Eisenstadt, Matt Elkin ‘99, Adam Fields, Zach Fox, Jack Germain, Lindsey Goodman, Pete Haarmann, Alex Ingram ‘03, Derek Jacobs, Tommy Kahn, Brian Kennedy, Alex Klein, Prescott Loveland, Andrea Lusso Matt Moskovciak, Jack Pesin ‘97, Josephine Porco, Sarah Ruel-Bergeron, Mike Schutzer, Becca Skolnick, Laurence Smith ‘00, Ashley Springer ‘97, Hadley Springer, Maria Sternfeld, Gilmar Valencia, Paul Welsh, Alex Whitman

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The Allen-stevenson school 2 013