Sarah Brewer

by Sarah Brewer

Ode To The Spanish Language

by Christian Robinson

At a taco joint on the corner of Harlem and Roosevelt, Dex asks me to order food for the group in Spanish, jokes that I'm related to the waitress. I chew on hesitation, just before bouncing your conjugates off my tongue like jumping beans.

Mom says seven years of Spanish should be enough to make me sound full Latino, so why not embrace the double "L" as I ask for two flour tortillas.

I'm careful not to swallow your stale rice vowels because the wrong accents rupture blood vessels in our heritage's timeline

Rolled R's are too-hot peppers clogging my throat with each dry syllable. The waitress shoots a border patrol glance, and my friends fall to the floor in laughter.

Despite my mother's memories of tamale-making Christmases, I still consider myself a cold glass of African American; I'm too parched of Mexican tradition to pour pride.

I'm brought back to Grandma Lupe's house when Dad's lap was the onlywelcome mat

because he and I were coated with chocolate mole.

We would reminisce of his brother's BBQ rib tips as we ate chorizo tacos, and looked forward to returning to the skin tones of his family, where your accents didn't drum major the march of conversation.

I'm on the border of two identities, but if I choose black, I can blend with the wide-nosed, dark-eyed people I resemble, without your crooked eyebrows questioning.

Holiday dinners with Mom's side of the family won't come with complimentary sides of Is he really one of us? Like when my father walked through the door for the first time, clinging to my mother's hand, her palm licking the sweat from his wrist: the taste of first impressions.

Yes, soul food erases the aroma of my Hispanic background. But I still catch myself gripping my mother's hand like a child separated from deported parents. 'Cause I feel like I'm committing suicide every time I decline to order Mexican food at some taco joint.

As for you, Spanish Language: I haven't managed to collect the intimacy it takes to offer you my insecurities on a fork But when I do, we can eat them together.

If:l Lu tn cl tj] r: mfir E

by Nick Politis

Better Days

by Courtney Fields

The liquid blue sky beamed down on my tanned face, and I could feel the cool water running between my sandy fingers. Seagulls cried above me as I tried my hardest to take a picture of this place. It was the last week before school started up again-the hardest week of summer, when everyone tried to do everything before having to hit the books once more. "Liwy, your father's bringing the car around," my mom said, sunscreen smeared on her nose like vanilla ice cream. "Try to get that sand offyour arms so you don't get it on his seats." I sighed, breathing in the crisp, fresh air that whistled at me. I took a step into the cool blue water. It lapped at my skin, sending shivers up my body, but washing offthe sand. "Livvy, Dad's back with the carl" My mom yelled. The freshwater wind greedily snatched up her hat, though she put forth little effort to catch it. It was old and worn-a present from my father, after they had gotten married. She frequently reminded herself to replace it with a newer version. "Coming!" I yelled back over the din of the laughing waves. I turned back one last time, just to engrave the image in my head, and then ran back to pack my things away. Dad regarded me with arched eyebrows as I slipped into the backseat of his pickup truck. He hated when I dragged stuff like sand into the car. Mom squirmed in the passenger seat as we scooted over a hill. "Honey, please slow down-these hills are so dangerous..." Dad looked in the rearview mirror. "Look, we'll be fine." After sneaking a quick glance at my mother, he playfully stomped on the gas, being careful to stay on his side of the road. 'All right, all right," I could hear Dad roll his eyes jokingly after seeing the panicked look on Mom's face. He eased off the pedal as we peaked the

hill. The sun swam on the horizon, its rays dancing over the water next to the highway. "We d have been fine anyhow," he grumbled under his breath, looking back at me. We climbed over a second hill, this one taller than the first. Just as we crested the hill, I could make out the top of something-a four-wheel-drive, perhaps? I squinted. Something was wrong. The left lane was empty and instead, the cumbersome SUV came clambering over the hill on our side of the road. My dad saw it too, but not in time. The seconds that followed fluttered by like drawings in a poorly made flipbook-the images before me barely fit together, the seconds flying by like sketched frames in a gruesome cartoon. Glass flew at me, thousands of knives puncturing my skin before I had time to think. The earth spun, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw my father's frantic face search for me in the back seat. We slammed against something hard and the world crumpled on top of me. Something like fire consumed me from head to toe as a pair of hands dragged me from the pile of metal that had been my father's car. Sirens screamed in my ears, and I could feel something warm and sticky mat my hair into clumps. The man-l think it was a man-who pulled me out yelled something to someone else. I looked down and winced-legs weren't supposed to bend that way. Blood dripped onto the scorched grass. I put my hand to my forehead and ran my fingers down from my temple to my shoulder. I could feel something-a cut, maybe?-snaking like the Mississippi River down my neck. Where was Dad? Mom? "Olivia!" Mom called out. She sounded a mile away. "Olivia..." Her arms wrapped around me. I could smell blood on her, too. "Where's Dad?" I murmured incoherently. "l-he..." She cradled her disheveled hand in her head, dissolving into a fit of unintelligible whispers.

Dread wrapped its fingers around my neck and throttled me as I looked to the ambulance. The stretcher, the paramedics...it was all there, the characters of a television drama thrown clumsily into real life, the last thing I had ever expected to see. "Dad?" I croaked, my hands quaking.

It was a year after the day at the beach-a year of my mother attempting in vain to get me to talk, to

get me to spill. But I wouldn't, I thought bitterly. It was almost first period when I arrived at school. I didn't fret too much-homeroom didn't matter in the big scheme of things, I decided. Unfortunately, the counseling sessions that my mother requested for me were still fourth period. If only I could have missed that, I thought wearily. Fourth period. The counselors'office smelled like lavender. I hated lavender. I flicked my eyes around the room. What surprised me wasnt the overwhelming smell of flowers, or the irritating Bach blaring from the secretary's speaker-it was the boy sitting in a chair at the far right corner of the waiting room. I was usually the only person with a counseling session this period. His noncommittal slouch reminded me of myself, but at the same time I had never seen him before-had I?

"Olivia?" Dr. Curtis welcomed me into her office with that stupid grin she always had-some kind of Barbie psychologist, minus the cheap plastic shoes. "How've you been so far today?" "Fine," I mumbled. I left my psyche in the chair in the waiting room while my body trudged toward Dr. Curtis's office. "Just fine." "So, I see you've been doing pretty well in school," she said through that plaster grin of hers, closing the office door behind her. I desperately wished that someone would rip the smile right off her face. "Yes, junior year is one of the most imperative, I'm afraid. But you've been doing just fine in

your classes. All honors and a few AP classes as well, yes?"

I tuned the doctor out and nonchalantly looked out the window. It was cloudy, not unusual for November, and frost was starting to climb slowly up the window panes. My gaze then wandered to the window into the waiting room. The boy sat like stone in his chair in the same position I'd seen him in before. He was probably my age, judging from his size. His slender legs sprawled out before him, almost freakish in length. Dr. Curtis sighed. "You never talk, Olivia. The purpose for these meetings is for you to communicate your feelings." She watched me steadily. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "Well, the thing is, I don't really like talking about my feelings." I looked everywhere but at her. She sighed and took a look at her watch. "Well, unfortunately, our session has to be cut a little bit short today. I have another student to work with until we find him his own counselor." she escorted me out of her office, dismay scribbled across her thin

face.

Once again seated in the waiting room I could see the new kid through the office window. He didn't say much to the doctor, just like me. I watched him nod absently as she spoke, but then he did something peculiar. His head turned to face the window. He was looking at me. I fidgeted in my chair. His brows furrowed, as if calculating something. The bell rang and I quickly threw my things into my bag-something was strange about that new kid and I wasn't about to find out iust what it was. My dirty shoes scuffed the floor as I pounced down the stairs to lunch. It was cold out on the quad but it beat the inescapable ruckus of the lunchroom. I watched my breath chug out of my mouth like smoke. I was just about the only person outside, save for a few guys skateboarding down a set of stairs. "Hi." I ignored the voice. No one talked to me, so there was really no point in wasting energy to find out who was speaking. "Um. Excuse me?" I turned gingerly. The guy from Dr. Curtis's office towered over me, his storklike figure blocking out the few rays of sunshine that squeezed themselves from the gray clouds above us. I managed a small wave and turned my back to him again, shoving my sandwich into my mouth with the sole purpose of repelling him. "Do you mind if I sit here?" I nodded. He didn't budge, watching me as if I had not yet responded. I sighed and motioned to the dead patch of grass beside me. "Thanks. You're from the counselor's office, right?" He picked nervously at a scar that wove its way from his right temple down to his jawbone. Although it was obvious against his pale complexion, tendrils of burnt chestnut-colored hair curled around his ear to keep it from showing. Was that intentional? "Yeah." "What're you there for?" "Counseling," I said mildly, making a duh face at him. I instantly regretted my sassy tone. "It's 'cause my mom thinks I need'help'." I put air quotations around the last word and stared holes into the ground in front of me. 'Ah," he said, watching me from the side. "Don't wanna talk about it?" "No." 'All right," he said simply, taking out his

lunch. "l get it. Plus, you just met me, so I guess it's kind of...weird to ask something like that." He paused. "l'm Michael, by the way." He waited for me to give my name. And waited. I sighed. "l'm Olivia...Liwy." "Nice to meetyou...Liwy." Something heavy seemed to weigh down his smile as he turned away from me and continued to eat his lunch.

The contents of my locker spilled out at my feet-again. Papers I hadn't seen since last October swam around my feet. If there was a prize for the least organized person at school, I won it hands down. I scraped my things together into a pile and shoved them back in, telling myself I d organize later even though I knew I wouldn't. "Hey, Liwy." Michael appeared next to me. I sighed and kept my head in my locker, pretending to look for something. "Livtry?" "Huh?" I said loudly, making random noise in my locker to further convince him of my preoccupation. No such luck. He continued to stand next to my locker, oblivious to my ploy to get him to leave. "l thought maybe you'd want someone to walk home with you?" He shifted the bulging knapsack on his back, looking more than a bit pained under its weight. "Sure," I said, giving up. I thrust my entire body against the locker to close. "Think you've got enough stuff in there?" His lopsided grin mocked me. I glared at him and kicked my locker, as if it, instead of Michael, was the one who threw the comment at me. "You do know that my house is like two miles away?" Since we lived in such a small town, everything was sprawled out across at least fifteen square miles in every direction. "lt'll take us at least thirty minutes to get there walking." "l'm up for it." He grinned. "l don't have too much homework. Besides, I like walking. It's kind of refreshing." ln November? I shrugged. 'All right, then." The minute we stepped out the door wind tore at our bodies and whipped around us like waves at the beach. "You know, you really don't have to do this. I walk home alone every day." "Then it should be a nice change for someone to walk with you," he said. I snorted indignantly.

Another day at the counselor's office. The walls closed in around me, suffocating me. But I still wouldn't talk, I thought. I could feel Michael's eyes burning into my head, but I couldn't bring myself to look at him. I hated him, I thought. I hated everyone.

"Oh, dear," Dr. Curtis said when she saw me. Obviously, I must've looked as bad as I felt. "What happened?" "Nothing," I muttered. She closed the door behind us silently. "You know I'm here to help you," she said gently, tapping the deskwith her manicured fingernails. "lt's not my job to chastise you, or to judge you. Do you trust me on that?" I pulled my legs up to my chest on the chair. I said nothing. I watched the Newton's cradle on the desk, turning a deaf ear to her. She sucked in a deep breath and looked at the ceiling as if it could, by some means, answer all of her questions. 'All right. I want you to write down how you feel. Not what happened, but how yo:u feel. Nothing more, nothing less." She handed me a blank sheet ofpaper. I stared at it, then picked out a pen from the mug on her desk. Five minutes passed, and she took the paper from me. Her face grew red, but then she swallowed

and contained herself. She showed me the picture-a stick figure atop a lackadaisically drawn boat. "This... Olivia, it's obvious that today, you're not making the most out of this session. So right now, while I take Michael, I want you to sit out in the waiting room and think about your feelings and how you can resolve your problems. You may see yourself out." She pursed her lips, disgruntled, and adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose. As I walked out of the office, I met eyes with Michael. He was shaking his head, hands clasped in front of his face in a position of prayer. I wondered if he saw the picture.

"Listen, you need to talk to someone," Michael caught up with me as I stepped outside after fourth period. "lt isn't healthy to just keep your feelings in like this." "Sure thing, Mom," I said gruffly, turning the corner. "If I wanted a lecture on feelings I would've tuned in to Oprah, thankyou very much. I don't see whyyou care so much!" "Fine-you see rhis?" He jabbed a finger at the scar on his face. "l got this a year ago. I killed your dad, Olivia."

Blood rushed to my head and blue spots appeared in myvision. "1..." I whispered. "How...?" This had to be a dream. I looked at him for a moment. It felt like forever until I turned swiftly on my heels and left the campus. My breath came out in quick puffs as I crossed the quad. I could feel my blood boil and my heart race. I kicked up dust with my scuffed-up white I(eds and grunted. At this point, my teacher would have realized I wasn't in class. Oh well,l thought. I passed the point ofcaring ages ago. I realized Mom wasn't home as I sank onto the couch. My father looked up at me accusingly from his spot on the coffee table, as if reprimanding me for skipping school. "l know, I know," I sighed, then flipped on the television. "lt's for a good cause, I'll have you know." Someone knocked at the door and I jumped. I flipped off the television and peered through the peephole. Michael stood outside, occasionally glancing at his watch. I let out a low growl of annoyance. "Go away'' "l'm not leaving." He lingered. I ripped open the door. "What do you wonf from me?" "I want you to hear me out. Please?" "What kind of sick joke are you trying to pull? Who do you think you are, walking around and telling people you killed their fathers?" I kicked the door to clarifl. my point. "lf you don't leave in thirty seconds, I'm calling the police!" "Whatever-l'm staying right here." "Fine." I checked through the peephole again, then found the phone. "l've got the phone. You've got twenty seconds." "Listen, okay? Just...let me talk...if what I say matches up with what you remember, then..." I scrunched up my face and thought to myself for a moment. "Fine." "Can I...can you at least let me in, Livvy?" "What do you think?" I snapped angrily. Silence. 'All right, then," he began. "I'd just gotten my permit a month or so before. And you know, I was all hyped up and ready to get on a highway. My mom was okay with it because it was the last week of summerand all, and wewere coming back from the beach anyway..." He inhaled. "She thought I was a great driver, I guess. You know how moms are. So we were coming up the hill, and my mom was so tired. She went to sleep right in the passenger seat, so she wasn't watching while I was driving. So I went up the hill and I started moving over to the other

lane. I mean, I noticed and all, but it didn't seem like such a big deal. But it was..." He shook his head at the ground. "My mom and I, we got outwith some bruises and broken bones. I mean, we went to the hospital and all, but...every day I wake up and think: 'l could be dead. But instead someone else is. And it's all my faultl I can't even livewith myself knowing what I did to you. I've been reliving that day, seeing your face, for the past year now. And sure, yeah, I got this stupid scar that probably won't ever go away, but you knowwhat? The people in the other car-youpaid the ultimate price for my negligence." He stood there, exposed for the first time. He folded his arms against the cold. 'And when I moved here and saw you again...l thought maybe I could've done right by you and settled the score." "Well, you thought wrong," I said bitterly. My tone could have given him frostbite, but I didnt care. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here." I slid down to the floor, my back against the door. On the other side, it was quiet except for his breathing. My conscience got the best of me and I opened the door. "Get in here." "Thanks," he mumbled. "Listen..." I scratched the back of my neck. "So...you really did do it?" "l wouldn't make all that up for nothing. After the legal stuffwas finished, my mom though itd be best to move out of the town we were living in...people were giving us such a hard time. But...l guess she had no idea that I d meet up with you again here." I folded my arms. "Well, it's been a year. And I guess it's been pretty bad on you, right? I mean, this is on your permanent record, and you've got to live with knowing that you killed someone for the rest of your life..." I sighed and rubbed my arm awkwardly. 'And I guess it's unfair for me to hold this against you-it's not making either of our lives easier." He shrugged, his eyes sketching circles in the hardwood floor. "Yeah, I guess." "So," I exhaled, letting every bad feeling that had built up inside me flow out. "I forgive you." He stood there for a moment, shock running over him like cool water. "What? You do?" "Yeah...l guess I don't know what I would do if I were in your shoes. You're already paying for what you did in a billion other ways, why should I make you feel even worse about yourself?" "l-thank you..l' Michael whispered, his voice a blend of sorrow and inexplicable happiness. Suddenly, the scar that wound down the side of his face didn't seem so big anymore.

I grabbed my backpack from the corner of the room. "So, I guess we should get to school before we miss the rest of the day, huh?" "Yeah." He followed me on the way out, and I closed and locked the door behind us.

by Cody Stocker

Sifted Dough Like Countertops

by |asmine Hosley

Sifted dough like countertops shaped it Like yeast rising, despair grows in the heart of the kitchen, Sunken, and the only thing stuffed is his corpse. Sweet potato pies left untouched, His cake couldn't sock it to her anymore Now Granny stands smothered in this capacity Wheelchairwheeled away weakened strength for support Matico plant left swinging in bliss Whisping the air, sweeter than an amaretto kiss Audibly mute, forbidding the truth Mordant, grim, inglorious they say define black But his inner glory redefined the bleakness at matter His colored skin now palored blue His aged knuckles now coldly shot Glacial countertops are what they're destined to be "Kitchen closed, the chef went home."

by l(ioto Aoki

Escape Plan

by Alia na Barnette-Dear

Deep breathing, Sweatypalms, Heartbeat racing,

Fear. He's coming, He'll find her, He always does,

Hide. Find the darkness, She covered herself, Shaking in shadows,

Seek. Where is hiswoman? Consequence is the key; he must find her

Anger. Found the darkness, Uncovered his woman, Beat offshadows,

Repercussions. Aftermath,

Tears,

Bruises,

Cry. He sleeps, She bleeds, an idea,

Dream. Her plan unfolds, Work day begins, His footsteps fade,

Run. The door is unlocked, Her feet are unsure, Freedom is so close,

Unknown. Door opens,

Dark slcy, Bus stop,

Away. One ticket,

One bag, Ten dollars,

Fear, I

Don't

What's next. Know,

Do

by Conrad Wight

When all our tasks are done/ what will we do but/ fade to dust as/ torn down housing projects have their/ foundations ripped up and/ dependent families are so displaced/ What can they do but/ pitch tarp tents in the/ resulting vacant lots/ trampling the tall grass/ What can we do but/ IMAGINE/ how it will be when we are/ sixty four and old and grayl wasting away doing the laundry and gardening/ Lest we carry on as/ nomads roam/ when we stop we will not know what to do.

o ..* 'i:

--x:{ .'-

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An- v t s *y

byJohn Davis

Spring Cleanirg

by Richie 'Wheelock

"Oh dear," said mother frog, "here's where Madge left her sugar tongs. Remind me to run them over to her later, will you? (And she must stop being so forgetful, I swear, I'll throw out those damn tongs if she insists on leaving them once more.) Whoops, I've dropped the framel Hand it to me, will you please? Thank you dear. Oh, it's fhis picture! You know, I remember when this was taken. Back at that garden party, whose was it again? Ah yes, Daisy's. Shame she died, she had lovely lilies. And look atLizzie! Barely three, she was, if my memory's right. And look! Her little feet are just coming in. (and of course Jerry's in the back, hobbling about.) Lizzie looks darling in this picture. You know, I worked hard enough to get that bow on her, but it paid off, didn't it? Oh, now you arent even lool<ing. What's that? Dear god, is that Cheryl's? Throw it out. Now. Wait! No it's Lizzie's! Ohl remember when we bought thisl We were out shoppingl

(Of course, Jerry refused to come along.) Yes, at Martin's. You know, that old toad. Yes, his shop. Oh don't be silly, of course you remember. I remember. You know I think sometimes I'll never forget. Which is fine by me, in any case. I miss them so... But do you remember when they learned to crawl? (lt was the day the crows flew in fiom south, in that great noisy swarm, and my petunias were ruined.) That was a thrilling day, yes. Well, they've left us, dear, just two old frogs waiting to die... Oh now I've gone and knocked over the vase. Look, it broke. No worries. It was that ugly one Cheryl gave us. You know with the dreadful birds on them. Hmm... Harry, you know I think I've forgotten one thing. Well, I'm sure it will come to me later. Now, don't forget to pick up that soccer ball on your way down. Whose was that anyways? Jerry never played soccer. (He was too lazy.) Never mind, I've got to hurry. Lizzie said shed phone and it's been monrhs since ... It could ring any second!" "lt was Ben'si' mumbled father frog. "Come again?"

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by the author