Mirage 2016

2016

MIRAGE

MIRAGE 2016

Laura (Yun Jai) Lee

Mirage 2016 Dana Hall School

Dedicated to Kevin Groppe and Nancy Rich

Adam Richins

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Kevin Groppe The high school drama teacher must hector, intone, cajole, implore, challenge, and ultimately inspire actors to discover their characters and themselves. He must negotiate, schedule, reschedule, appeal for funds, and make time where no time exists. In the end, he must convince people to create a new world two or three times a year. Mr. Kevin Groppe did this and so much more for the students and faculty of Dana Hall. He has been an inspiration to his acting students, an engaged and supportive Head of Department, and a loyal friend of the arts. He has honored the traditions and history of the school, lived with the ghosts of Bardwell, and helped countless girls appreciate the beauty of theatre. He has also been a caring, demanding, dedicated teacher of English and a gracious colleague to all. We will miss you, Mr. Groppe, but you will still be part of our lives. As your friend Thoreau once wrote: “Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious as to have friends at a distance; they make the latitudes and longitudes.”

The Performing Arts and English Departments Nancy Rich It is my great pleasure to write this dedication in honor of Nancy Rich, who has worked at Dana Hall for nineteen years.

She has served in a wide range of capacities at Dana, including: Middle School Counselor, Director of the Upper School, Assistant Head of School, Interim Director of the Middle School, and Academic Dean. One of my favorite Shel Silverstein poems, “Somebody Has To,” describes Nancy perfectly:

Somebody has to go polish the stars, They’re looking a little bit dull.

Somebody has to go polish the stars, For the eagles and starlings and gulls Have all been complaining they’re tarnished and worn, They say they want new ones we cannot afford.

So please get your rags And your polishing jars, Somebody has to go polish the stars.

Nancy has made Dana Hall a better place. She has nurtured and polished our academic program so that it positively sparkles. We are deeply grateful for her expertise, hard work and persistence, and we are excited to see what stars she polishes next.

Caroline Erisman

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Dana Hall

Fading Sophie Binder ’16 Cover Refresh Laura (Yun Jai) Lee ’16 1 The Prayer Yanfei (Effie) Li ’17

4 Plate Full of Nothing Kate Brady ’17 5 Perfectly Content Carolynne Liu ’16 5 Wood, Glass & Bristle Katharine Cabot ’17

6 Blue Stockings Jacqueline Hayre-Pérez ’17 7 Dockside Restaurant Erin (Chaeyeon) Kim ’16 7 Love Caroline Johnson ’18 8 Jumping Rope Abigail Durfee ’ 17 9 Isolation Ye Ri Lee ’17 10 Netflix and Fail

Lizzie Venditti ’16 11 Bloom Christiana Thorbecke ’17 12 Sighe Grace Dunne ’ 17 13 Seven Ways to Look At A Paper Clip

Helen Hogge ’19 14 Nothing Gold Can Stay Sabrina Heffernan ’16 14 Reveal Soomin Mah ’17 15 Venus Yifan Xu ’17 16 Flying Swallows

Yanfei (Effie) Li ’17 17 Early Morning Saki Omote ’19 17 Lighter Eyes Christiana Thorbecke ’17 18 3 Peaches Soomin Mah ’17 18 Bitten Grace Dunne ’17 19 Grandfather Tori Alvarez ’16 20 All We Were Molly Kellog ’16 21 The Beginning Laura (Yun Jai) Lee ’16 22 Belief Saaniya Desai ’19 24 From The American Dream Series Amera Youssef ’17 25 The Three Witches of McDonaldth Yifan Xu ‘17 26 Tangled Jenna Howard ‘16 27 Miscommunication Jacqueline Hayre-Pérez ’17 28 Letters

Lillian Garber ’16 29 Space Jinjae Kim ’16 30 Delivery Boy Natalie Ciardi ’16 31 Sea Creatures Anna Park ’18 32 Abduction Stacey Rodriguez ’16 32 Fan and the Lantern of Luck Michelle (Manxue) Ma ’18 33 Not Yet Meaghan Robichaud ’17 33 Bottles On Bottles On Bottles Stacey Rodriguez ’16 34 I Saw a Lily Ida (Wanjing) Jia ’18 35 Tears in Laughter Katherine Tsai ’18 35 The Origin Evonne (Yu-Fang) Lao ’17 36 Apparition of Eternity Isabella Azevedo ’16 36 Magnum Opus Isabella Azevedo ’16 37 Ombre Angy Cervone ’18 37 Serene Erin (Chaeyeon) Kim ’16 38 Pals Jill Campbell ’16 39 Memory of Bear Island Ryland Rich ’18 39 Forbidden Love Sasha Megie ’17 40 Reminisce Ye Ri Lee’17 41 In Black and White Carolynne Liu ’16 42 Chestnuts Tori Alvarez ’16 43 Stacey Jenna Howard ’16 44 The Construction of Mind and Body Jinjae Kim ’16 Back Cover Mirage 2016

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Kate Brady

PERFECTLY CONTENT

Yanfei (Effie) Li

Carolynne Liu

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Dana Hall

The chaotic rumble of the city. The glittering skyscrapers, arching into the clouds. Street vendors selling cold noodles on every unoccupied surface of the sidewalk. The push and pull of a surging crowd through the rush hour train station.

I walk briskly. It will take forty-five minutes to get from one end of the East Rail Line to the other, just enough time for about ten songs, blasted through my blue Urbanears. Once I get to my station, I will be just in time for the bus, which comes every twenty minutes. I will smile and nod at the driver, and he will give me a half-hearted wave despite having known me for years, and then take another swig from his silver thermos. I will

arrive home in three Clean Bandit songs. I will take a hot shower and laugh at my brother’s jokes, which are usually immature but always funny, while listening to my parents go on yet another tirade about college applications. Plopping down on the sofa, I will watch “A Bug’s Life” with my little sister, in which I know every line by heart, while slurping up my mom’s noodle soup, the warm steam enveloping my face. My sister will suddenly pipe up that she also wants some, and my mom will make a whole new batch just for her. I groan, knowing that she’ll take one sip and say she’s full. This is a world that I know by heart; a world devoid of “what ifs”; a world where every question has a solid answer. Here, I have everything I could ever want; here, I am perfectly content, and perfectly at home.

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BLUE STOCKINGS Jacqueline Hayre-Pérez Because I’m wearing Blue stockings Because I guess I prefer

Blue stockings to Black Because my mind can believe

I am White.

Because someday, I’ll see my confidence

instead of blue stockings.

Erin (Chaeyeon) Kim

Katharine Cabot

Because my long lanky legs

are deceptively cloaked in formality Because I think I can pass

as one of them Because I hope no one notices

that beneath those Blue stockings, it’s

plain that I’m not one of them.

Because I am heads and shoulders taller

than the mirror that even shows my covered feet Because I chose not to step away

to see the full picture Because I knew I would face

the sun-Browned shade Blue stockings doesn’t cover Because I hoped someday I would realize

that the mirror would reflect back my beauty.

Mirage 2016

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LOVE Inspired by Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl” Caroline Johnson

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Dana Hall

Abigail Durfee

I see you talking to that boy a lot, you must like him; because that’s what everyone will ask; he likes you; and when a boy likes you, you like him too; and you’ll kiss him like I did when I met your father; because girls like boys; and boys like girls; if you don’t you’ll feel differently later; that’s how you will be; it’s how you will be because that’s how it is on TV; and that’s what everyone told me; when a boy and a girl look at each other on TV they are in love; and when a girl finds that boy he’ll change her life; and they’ll tell you that, too; no boys at sleepovers; because girls like boys; and boys like girls; boys and girls can’t be just friends; you have to dress up and be pretty for boys; you have to wear itchy dresses and high heels and pantyhose; but I don’t like dresses and fancy shoes and panty hose; suits with ties are for boys and dresses are for girls; and girls clothes are in the girls section that is where you will shop; you also have to cover yourself for boys; there’s a dance soon and we’re buying a dress and fancy shoes and panty hose; boys will dance with girls; and if a boy asks you to dance you say yes; yes you have to wear the dress and fancy shoes and panty hose; because girls like dolls and dresses and boys; boys like video games, sports and girls; girls don’t like the same things as boys; but what if I like-; no you can’t it’s for boys; you can’t just be friends with boys either; because girls like boys; and boys like girls; if you think another way; it’s just a phase that will pass; how can you know if you’ve never kissed a girl; girls and girls can only be friends; because that’s how it is on TV; and that’s what society told me; you’ll grow up and feel differently; you’ll try to make yourself like boys because that’s what you are told; and when you realize you don’t you’ll feel scared and confused and you’ll hide it and keep it locked inside; you’ll try to make it go away but it won’t; and you’ll keep it in for so long and you’ll be so afraid; and it’s always in the back of your mind but you can’t tell anyone; because it’s just a phase; you just haven’t found the right boy; how could you not like boys; I see you talking to that boy a lot; we’re just friends-; of course you like him; because that’s what everyone will tell you; and when a boy and a girl talk to each other they like each other; and if he likes you, you have to like him too; it’s not wrong to be the other way; but only other people are like that; because girls like boys; and boys like girls; because that’s what you see on TV; and that’s what everyone told me; and that’s how you will be.

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NETFLIX AND FAIL

Ye Ri Lee

Lizzie Venditti

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Dana Hall

Sometimes it starts out at a reasonable time, for an understandable purpose. It’s only three and I had a long day. I deserve an hour of relaxation. So, I flop myself onto my bed, type in the link burned into my brain and click the show I want to watch. It starts out harmlessly. I grab some chips, make some nachos and enjoy my hour of entertainment.

Then, somehow, three hours go by unproductively.

“Just one more episode, it’s only six.” I mumble to myself as I reload the Netflix tab on my Macbook. The bottom of my laptop burns my thighs and the pillow supporting my head sinks a little more. Meredith Grey’s familiar face fills the screen once again as she talks with McDreamy, her neurosurgeon boyfriend. I sigh in contentment and relax. My blankets crinkle as I move my legs to try to get comfy. The brightness of my computer screen makes me squint, and the low volume set creates a calm murmur. I watch as the drama unfolds through the show. I love how the different characters are all connected and how they all love saving lives. It’s intriguing how they solve personal problems in surgery. As I’m admiring one of the attractive doctors, I remember I have to review some trigonometry for math. Then, the next thing I know, in the middle of the episode, thoughts of my unattended homework start to break through and swarm my once-relaxed mind. Two essays, a problem set, a translation of thirty lines of The Aeneid, and math equations.

I’m also pretty sure I’m forgetting other little assignments I have to do. My heart feels like it’s about to stop and my palms sweat. It’s six forty-five and I have hours of work to do, at least. Stress forms in my mind, like an episode loads on the free television site. I close my eyes and try to slow my pounding heart. I breathe slowly and look back at the frozen screen.

“It’s okay,” I calm myself, “there’s only ten more minutes left of this episode, and really, homework won’t take that long.”

So, I stay put. I have a few frees tomorrow to take care of the homework I don’t get done tonight. I’ll be fine. When Mark Sloan is talking with Callie Torres, my phone buzzes and I’m forced to pause my show. I see a text from Finley, a girl in a few of my classes.

What’s the answer for question seven for Physics?

It’s now seven and I can’t respond to her. I haven’t even started. Stress comes crawling back and dread takes over. I haven’t started anything, I repeat in my head over and over again. A few curse words flow through my mind, and after a few deep breaths I try to calm down.

“Okay, only half of the show is left. I’ll finish, then start my homework. I’ll even put my backpack beside me to remind me to exit the site at the end of this episode,” I encourage myself, as I click the play button and ignore Finley’s text.

She doesn’t need to know I haven’t started my physics problems. Someone else will help her. The doctors all talk to each other, and I laugh at their competitive natures. Meredith and McDreamy have another fight. I was so sad the last time, when he picked Addison over her, after she beautifully said, “Pick me, choose me, love me.” Now they’re arguing over the clinical trial. It breaks my heart the more they yell, but it amuses me all at the same time. Shonda Rhimes is a brilliant show creator.

The episode ends, and I pause. Netflix counts down and gives me twenty seconds to decide. I look back and forth between the computer screen and my backpack. My thumb hovers over the mouse pad with hesitance. It’s eight fifteen. Could I watch, just one more? Should I? 10…9…8… I remember each assignment and all I have to do. I think of how interesting Grey’s Anatomy is. My mom walks around downstairs, and I can see how mad she would be to find me watching TV instead of doing my homework. Guilt immediately floods through me as I think of her disappointment. I’m almost eighteen; I need to be a responsible young adult. I need to do my homework to do well. I need to get good grades and get into college. Stress lingers on and grows like a blood sucking tick, making me weaker and sadder.

5…4…3…2, and then I don’t have to decide. Netflix automatically loads the next episode for me. I’m greeted with Meredith’s concerned face, and relief fills me. I lean back against my pillow and rest my head. My backpack sits and laughs at me.

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BLOOM Christiana Thorbecke

12

I pull into the sand-dusted parking lot, the white lines distinguishing spaces crumbling over split pavement.

Opening the door, I swing my bare feet onto the ground.

My toes curl up instinctively. Walking towards the sand, I have to be careful, and keep my eyes focused on the ground, looking for broken beer bottles and other sharp objects.

Timid breezes pick up the sand and create miniature storms that slice up my ankles. My dress flutters, and wrinkles bloom across the fabric. It’s freezing, even though it’s early spring and premature flowers have managed to creep through the hard earth.

The sound of waves fighting with each other as they lap across the shore is loud; it almost succeeds in tuning out all the noise inside my head. But not quite. I balance on my toes, walking with slow steps on the line where the water touches and the dry sand begins. My toes turn purple in the colorless water. A rusty anklet rubs against my skin, drawing out blisters.

In the distance, fog curls just over the water, reminding me of cigarette smoke, only beautiful. I settle on the sand holding my knees, sitting in an inch of water that washes over me and retreats in a lulling rhythm. This is my nightly escape. It’s a boundless sense of freedom, to be covered in darkness and, for a moment in time, exist as the only person on earth, occupying a stretch of ocean in the middle of Nowhere, California.

Dana Hall

Grace Dunne

The sky’s invisible beneath a dress of stars so bright it makes you sick to look at. I speed through a fourway intersection, not bothering to stop; the town’s too underpopulated for traffic lights, and no one drives through Main Street in the middle of the night. Light drips into the opened window, the color of chalk. It’s weightless, and a quiet sort of brightness so thick it could almost be mistaken for darkness. A coffee mug balances precariously on the dashboard. I try to take the turns slowly to prevent a spill.

I don’t have a license yet, mostly because I won’t sit through three months of Drivers’ Ed and then pay 350 dollars––apiece––for a handful of driving classes. A price the school can ask for because it’s the only one within three hours of town. I get away with the driving because I haven’t killed anyone yet, and no one in rural California gives a damn. I’ve never once been stopped. Besides, the illegals at school don’t have licenses either.

Silence washes over the street. Not a single artificial light breaks the night. It’s late, and there’s school tomorrow, but I’m driving to the ocean.

Cold air rushes through the opened window, slips across my exposed back, crawls down my low-hanging beach cover, digs trenches in a line across my skin. My mom hasn’t called yet so I know I’m in good shape. This time, she probably won’t realize I “ran out,” and she won’t have a reason to yell at me in the morning.

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SEVEN WAYS TO LOOK AT A PAPER CLIP Helen Hogge Paperclip, you give me hope, a small silver chance, The light at the end Of a paper-strewn tunnel.

An army that is led by small geniuses.

We tend to think ones so small Are not so great But you, paperclip, you could defeat Napoleon.

Wandering, I travel these twisted roads Working my way in, and in the middle There is Paper Clip.

I pick you, The poor man’s tool, I pick you, paperclip, I pick you over the snazzy staple, I pick you over the bodacious binder clip.

You come to me, a magnetic draw.

I didn’t call you, paperclip, You came to me Of your own accord.

“Hand me the paper clip.”

This will be gruesome.

But in the end it will be a masterpiece.

It’s no paintbrush, but it will do.

High in my hair Is a glint of metal.

I wonder what it could be?

This time it is a paper clip.

I couldn’t find the binder clip.

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Dana Hall

Soomin Mah

Sabrina Heffernan

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FLYING SWALLOWS Yanfei (Effie) Li Lucy, Sylvia, Leah. They all used to be my English names.

Since I started to learn English, I have changed my name as often as a kid changes her taste in clothes. I never settled down on a single name until three years ago, when I left China for the U.S. and named myself Effie.

Effie satisfied my desire to have a fresh start in the foreign country. It was indeed a fresh start, as Effie was a nickname with no specific meaning. It came to me as a brand new identity, without any predetermined definition. I would be the one to give it significance.

But whoever I become, I never want to abandon my old self. In fact, I picked Effie out of hundreds of other English names because it sounded like my unalienable real name Yanfei, a Chinese name given by my parents that can be combined with my sister’s name to have the meaning of a pair of flying swallows. Before I am anyone else, I am Yanfei, my country’s citizen, my sibling’s sister, and my parents’ daughter. I chose to be called Effie because “Yanfei” had become something more hallowed than a name, so I buried it deeply into my heart and gave myself an alias. Any attempts to change my real name will not be tolerated, because Yanfei is the name with which I had celebrated fifteen Spring Festivals in China, with which I used to wake up every morning listening to my sister’s breathing, and with which now three times a year I step out of the arrival gate to find my parents waiting patiently in the airport.

EARLY MORNING Inspired by James Wright’s “A Blessing”

Yifan Xu

Saki Omote

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Dana Hall

Early morning, February 25, 2005.

Mom and Dad are still snoring with relieved smiles on their faces.

I walk up to the window. The policeman on a horse waves.

I lip sync hello, and my own warm breath touches my skin and fogs my sight.

I rub my hand to the thin ice panel that reflects me like a mirror.

The sky is watery light blue with straight rays of red or orange sunlight, An endless ocean running over the ceiling.

Gradually, the slit of sun widens.

The policeman calls: haven’t seen you since yesterday, Saki.

The sunlight wakes up the town like an alarm And brings busy morning sounds.

A familiar voice calls my name. My mom stands by the door, Her soft hand pushing me to a cozy dining room with the aroma of butter.

She puts a plate of Mickey Mouse pancakes in front of me, with butter and maple syrup.

The taste of homemade pancakes spreads in my mouth.

Suddenly I realize that nothing is more special than normal days.

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LIGHTER EYES Christiana Thorbecke I remember the blood on her hands, the shards stuck to her infantile palms; pieces of a wine glass moving across the floor. her startled eyes, dark, like stains and her wobbling cry that might have been mistaken for laughter had I not known better stealing her by the wrists, I thrust her sunburned hands under the kitchen sink: the water sloshed out, against the silver rim, hit dirty dishes, and stained our clothes in the nighttime, when the darkness––colored in with starlight––dressed the room, our skin, I laid down beside her (this was back when we were young enough to share a bed) and listened as my little sister hummed fragments of a song in her sleep–– sleek vapor that melted holes in the air.

Grace Dunne

Soomin Mah

Maybe she was crying.

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ALL WE WERE

Tori Alvarez

Molly Kellogg

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Dana Hall

I turned sixty-seven today, my father’s age when he died. I was the oldest of six, so we were never close. We didn’t agree on much. He voted Republican; I voted Democrat. He liked football; I liked baseball. He liked scotch; I liked bourbon. The only things we had in common were our last name and our noses. Looking back, I can’t help but wonder who that man was that day.

One fall morning, when I was ten, he called my name and yelled at me to join him in the yard. I came quickly, yet reluctantly, assuming he was going to yell at me or tell me to rake the leaves. When I walked up to him, he smiled.

“Alright, Michael, I am going to teach you how to box.”

My father was a World War II veteran, a pilot, and an advertising executive, but above all, he was a boxer.

Boxing was all that ever really made him smile, except for when he had a few drinks or when the Giants won against the Packers. I was shocked that he wanted to teach me, but I would have been a fool to waste any time.

He told me to put my fists up in front of my face and reminded me to always be aware and tuck my elbows in to protect my body. Then, he told me to hit him. I had always wondered what it would be like to be on the other end of a fight with my father. He was tall, built, and had a piercing stare when you pissed him off. And there I was, but this time with no consequences. I put my fists in front of my face and we bounced around in a circle, like kangaroos. I looked for my opportunity.

“Go for it, son. Throw a punch. Look for your options.”

I swung and he ducked. He tapped my chin with his fist and smiled.

“Don’t forget to protect yourself. That’s rule number one.”

We bounced around on the balls of our feet, twisting in circles. My father and I locked eyes. Suddenly, I swung.

My fist felt like it was breaking in half as it hit the bridge of his nose. My father fell to the ground. As he got up with his hand over his nose, blood dripped down his face.

He smiled at me bigger than I had ever seen.

“Good job, son. I am proud of you. You got one hell of a punch, just like your old man,” he said, and he patted me on the back.

Yeah, it was a bit backwards that my father would be happy I bloodied his nose, and yeah, he complimented himself in the process of complimenting me, but it was the first time he ever told me he was proud of me. The second was when I got into college, and the third was when I passed my bar exam. I know he loved me, he must have, but he never knew how to show it. He was distant and aloof. I spent a lot of time trying to get his attention, but he just didn’t seem to care. He even sometimes treated my mother like she didn’t matter to him and other times, like she was the only one he loved in this world.

My father did so much for the world. Goddamnit, he saved lives. But, he ruined his own and he messed up mine. He was haunted by his demons and though as much as he thought they might, alcohol and cigarettes couldn’t chase them away. I guess I have to be grateful for everything he gave me – my education, my life, the house I grew up in, but he made it so damn hard.

The last time I spoke to my father, it was a Tuesday. I had come over to his house to visit. We sat in the living room together, him on the couch and me in the armchair.

His once handsome face was etched with wrinkles and his hair had gone gray. The Giants game was on, so he was in a pretty good mood. He told me that if I ever became a Packers fan, he would rise up out of the grave and smack me. We laughed together and I told him about a case I had at work that week. Then I told him that I guess I’d see him soon and left. He died of a heart attack three days later, before we ever got the chance to fix the problems between us.

I turned sixty-seven today and was reminded of that autumn day in the yard, the feeling of my fist hitting my father’s nose, and the splatter of his blood in the grass.

I guess I could say that I miss him but that wouldn’t be accurate. I miss that day and I miss the man he was that day. I just wish things between the two of us had been different. In all my years on this earth, life has thrown me a lot of punches, but that day in the yard, my father taught me how to throw them back.

Mirage 2016

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Laura (Yun Jai) Lee

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Dana Hall

Mirage 2016

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BELIEF Saaniya Desai

Amera Youssef

This life is not worth living You will never hear me say “I am special” Because I believe Greatness has already been achieved We cannot conclude We have the ability to change the world In reality We only have a negative mindset We think “The glass is half empty” Not “The glass is half full” We are believers that We represent war and famine and death We don’t consider We are happiness and love and sunshine This world is filled with people who know that We can’t make a change It is unreasonable to assume We can reverse all of this Now, read it from the bottom to the top

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Dana Hall

Mirage 2016

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THE THREE WITCHES OF MACDONALDTH: A HISTORICAL MUSH UP Yifan Xu New York, N.Y.—“Double, double, French fries and fro-yo; Fire burns, and oil bubbles,” yelled a loudspeaker on Fifth Avenue. The Weird Sisters from Scotland joined MacDonalth and opened their first store yesterday in the heart of New York City, the twenty-first century Edinburgh. Since their arrival three years ago, they have adopted an American lifestyle: they paid for an apartment with debt, they sold original American food like french fries and pizza, and they even adopted an Asian orphan.

With utmost jolliness, the immigrants embraced Change, Modernity, and Freedom.

“My new life here is ace,” exclaimed the First Witch, “I mean, awesome, that’s the word. Sometimes I miss strolling down the moors, but eating hot dogs while watching people pile on top of each other in an armed rugby game always make me forget about the rainy isles.” Saying this, she even opened her wood closet to show us her New York Giants T-shirt. Next to it was a handmade cattail scarf she brought from home. “Forever 21 is my favorite brand,” she explained, “I just love the teen spirit and the cheap prices.

But sometimes I go pricy, like for undergarments I always choose Victoria’s Secret. That store reminds me of the good old days: the age of the Cathedrals. The popes would have loved VS. Seriously, they have Angels! With feathered wings! A whole army of them, all white and naked. Like in the oil paintings. Only skinnier. A whole lot skinnier.”

“Seems like you’ve forgotten how upset you were when they forced us to take off our cloaks.” The Third Witch smirked and then explained to us, “We walked to Times Square and tourists surrounded us for pictures. They want to show their friends on some social media that they were in New York. Those attention-hungry people were like beasts starving for food. They called us Wicked Witches of the East, or was it of the West? They even tried to give us money. How outrageous! No witch should be humiliated that way. A policeman told us our cloaks confused the crowd, so we had to take them off.” She sighed.

“The police forced us into a lot of things,” The Second Witch corroborated her sister, and also sighed with

26

Dana Hall

Jenna Howard

intimations of regret. “We were forced to take off our cloaks because they attract tourists; we were forced to walk because broomsticks terrify the kids; we were even forced to buy a stupid plastic box called the microwave because the caldron is ‘a threat to public health’!” I asked if they had given up their old trade as well, only to be answered with silence. But as a diligent reporter, I was determined to find out the truth.

Finally, after two hours of chitchat and tequila, their lips started to loosen a bit. “We tried to trick people into believing they were going to be the president,” the First Witch muttered between sobs, “but that seems to have many unexpected consequences. Then we tried to sell magic potions that make your unrequited love requited, but not even one bottle was sold.” The Second Witch added on to that: “A kid even told us ‘roofies’ work better. What bloody hell even is that?” The Third Witch continued: “Then we tried to sell our dog-tongue-and-lizard-leg blend, which escalates you into the World of the Spirits. But once again they already had something to ‘get high’ on. There are so many kinds! Pot, heroin, crack, and all that stuff. How could we make a living off nothing? All we can do is fry chicken and potato sticks!”

The next morning, everything retumed to normal.

The Second Witch packed PB&J for her son’s lunch. The sisters had BLT sandwiches for breakfast, with OJ. They said hi to their friendly, jogging neighbors on their way to the train station. The First Witch headed towards their MacDonaldth store and put up a poster: “Double, double, French Fries and Fro-yo, Fire burn, and oil bubble. Fillet of a fatty chicken, in the caldron fry till golden. Strip of bacon, pie of apple; Salad of Caesar, syrup of maple. Big Mac’s here, with several pieces of beef; other burgers too, pickles onions and cheese. Ranch covered spinach, and World Famous Fries; fudge drowned sundae, and bacon lettuce wraps. For a charm of cardiovascular trouble, like a heaven - oil boil and bubble.”

On the way home, the First Witch said to me: “We live in a world where fair is foul and foul is fair, but I’m lovin’ it.”

MISCOMMUNICATION Jacqueline Hayre-Pérez Wisps of lilting black dance for but an instant, before fluid ink seeps deep through blank pages, a heavy stain upon fresh promised land.

I’ve learned many words from foreign lands, and I have wandered far, but I have changed and lost my way, across the barrier from you.

The script may run, calling out to you, I miss you in Arabic swerved as the branches of a sturdy oak reaching up to the sky, missing the heavens.

The path I’ve taken, accented with regret, is shrouded in miscommunication.

Distanced by elusive words I seek as guides through the darkest valley, across the bridge back to you.

The fierce, stubborn sun may arch in the air, with rays of hope dangled from stiff streaks of Hindi, calling out to you, don’t leave me, Until their fire is gone, and sustenance dwindles.

It’s only in my language, true and sure, that rings honest in my heart, that in the end my deepest wish is to communicate to you, my own way, I love you.

In Gujarati I yearn after a single word, for loneliness teaches Family, In dying notes of Parji, I sang Remember, In lost tongues of Sanskrit too, I sought our greater Truth, But while language lost is lovely, it’s seldom understood.

Stiff and cold as English is, I scrawled words across the page, addressed the front and signed the seal, sending you nothing more than “I’m sorry.”

It’s only in your language, hard and rough, that I can ask of you, “Forgive me.”

Lillian Garber

28

Dana Hall

DELIVERY BOY

Jinjae Kim

Natalie Ciardi

30

Dana Hall

I propped my sneakers up on the dented copper faucet, and I thought about what I had done to land me in this detention facility. I rubbed my fingers along the side of the chair, peeling paint that flaked off like a French pastry. A croissant. I had dreamed of squeezing my fingernails into the puffiness and watching the crust crinkle away. I had snatched so many earlier, and dammit, I never got the chance to eat one. They say it was theft; I say they were missing the point.

The heist idea had been made over the span of one breakfast, when Estelle had pointed out the Fawkes family, feasting on their high-rise balcony while we slurped up carton milk at breakfast.

“Holy shit, it’s like Thanksgiving up there. Look at the croissants they have! Baskets of them!” she exclaimed, her neck craned to the sky. “Raymond, you like to climb buildings. You should snatch some for us.”

“Mmm hmm,” I munched through cereal, “cool proposal. But what’s a croissant?”

“It’s like a…” I knew from the way her words dropped away that she had never had one herself, “… like a really, like really, yummy piece of bread. The butter oozes out!”

I glanced down at my soggy Wheaties and the milk carton with the brown stain caked down its side and the toast that probably looked nothing like what a croissant looked like.

“All right, I like bread. But I don’t like to just climb buildings. I like to leap off them and do tricks. I’m going to become famous for it.”

“I believe in you, Ray-man, follow your dreams. This can be your first official stunt,” she tapped out a rhythm with her spoon. “Oookay, I’m thinking of a plan, hold tight, and com’ere.”

Estelle briefed me as we huddled up, our foreheads pressed together all secret-like. Thursday morning before school, I would get to the balcony

while Estelle waited on the sidewalk to catch croissants.

Soon enough, I was scooching up a metal pipe onto an angled roof in an alleyway a few blocks behind the high-rise. I scanned for the best route. The building I was on sloped down to a twenty-foot drop and had a ten-foot gap between the building beside it. I went to the gap and put pressure on the edge of the roof with my heel. Nothing crumbled. I backpedaled to the top and sprinted back down, vaulting across the gap and somersaulting to a stop on the other side. The itch to embrace the wind again made my feet pound on.

Dodging AC units and sliding under pipes made me feel like I was tearing through an urban jungle. The next roof gap came and I didn’t even look— I catapulted over and realized the drop was a little more than I’d prepared for.

I landed hard on a pasture of skylights.

My legs turned to jelly after impact, and I allowed the excess momentum to roll me down the angled windows and dump me on a brick rooftop.

As I lay there panting and wincing, I noticed the graffiti and empty spray cans that made up the décor of the rooftop. The vibrant paint hues made my eyes water after staring at grayscale city for so long. Above, the high-rise devoured the sun in a cold blue haze.

I thought of eating croissants with Estelle and creaked to my feet.

I scaled the brick wall on the opposite end and planted my feet on the surrounding ledge. I shimmied to the front of the building, my spine quivering and my sweaty hands splayed against the wall. The wind nipped at me, but the high-rise was within my leap. The more I looked, the more I wanted to throw up everything I’d ever eaten. So I became blind, temporarily. I flew, arms first, to the window ledge across from me, my fingers just snagging the marble. I hugged the cold wall and screamed relief. Carefully, I rounded the building into the sunlight. The balcony was there, as well as the croissants. The entire Fawkes family sat around a circle table having breakfast.

I didn’t dare stop. Being so close to my prize gave me the strength to continue. I crouched and crawled along, taking a few breaths before vaulting into the balcony where I met bewildered stares. I snatched the croissant basket clean off the table. The father stumbled to his feet, but I was already dangling from the handrail, dropping down into the balconies below one at a time: ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. I landed on the grass and I was knocked off my feet.

Estelle sprinted over to me with an ambiguous expression. She was a mix between “I can’t believe you would try something as idiotic as that with the family present in the balcony” and “Thank goodness you didn’t mangle yourself.” The basket was resting next to my shoulder on the grass and I handed it to her. She took it in her hands but did not take it from me, her fingers peeling back the napkin for a quick glance at the croissants inside. She grinned at me and started laughing.

From up above, we heard the Fawkes yelling: “Stop, stop, STOP, breakfast THIIIIEF!” It was just our luck that there was a cop radar-gunning the street. He jogged over to us, but Estelle and I kept our hold on the basket, laughing until our eyes started to swim.

“You kids stole those,” his jog slowly built to a sprint.

“A cop’s coming,” she chortled.

“We were just playing a game, officer,” I offered.

“That is no game. That’s a crime,” he squinted at us, trying to square us up.

“It’s my passion,” I tried to explain.

“Wrong— you’re just a bunch of street bums with nothing better ta do.”

He ripped the basket from us and smashed the croissants to the ground.

The oven-browned pastries now had flakes of gravelly jimmies caking them.

Estelle and I thundered down the street, the adrenaline spurring us on.

After a few minutes of running, we had already forgotten the croissants.

SEA CREATURES Anna Park Waves crashing into the translucent wall, Loud thunder shaking every soul that sinned.

A fear of the unknown remains so small, But monsters come, with every gust of wind.

For there are creatures lurking in the deep, The wave of red cov’ring half your pale face.

A trace of this creature, you mustn’t keep.

Shall we try to escape its pleasant grace?

Just stay awake ‘till the darkness arrives, Stand close and be surprised at what you see.

Beneath the icy cold, water like knives, There lies a fish with more beauty than she.

But we must go, the sun will rise at dawn, Surface to the water and then we’re gone.

Michelle (Manxue) Ma

NOT YET

Stacey Rodriguez

Meaghan Robichaud

32

Dana Hall

I look up at the sky; my eyes turn clear A sigh of relief hits my heavy chest, And burdens scamp away like fretful deer, The breeze tickles my skin and melts my breast.

Then happily do I think on you, true love, Done with all the trinks that were promis’d to me; Praising my pate that’s seemingly enough Would it were so with one that wouldn’t flee.

Your image like a leaf ever changing Burning with the seasons and spurring with the breeze; Conducive to one soul that manges My sickened and battered heart that longs for your ease.

My sun is setting, and I must be content With the love that was not loved by me just yet.

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I SAW A LILY Ida (Wanjing) Jia I saw a lily A pristine white lily She stood quietly In the deep shade under the tree She hid timidly Among grasses that touch the knee But I happened to catch a glimpse Of her ethereal beauty As she swayed gently In the morning breeze

TEARS IN LAUGHTER

Stacey Rodriguez

Katherine Tsai

34

Dana Hall

It was that day. At my aunt’s funeral. Friends and family members gathered together to say their last goodbyes. Uncle Chris was standing in the very first row with my grandparents. Mom and I were right behind them. I saw tons of faces that I’ve never seen hugging my uncle and grandparents, saying it was very heart-breaking to lose my aunt, and that they would always be there to support them.

Then all of the sudden, he started laughing. The person standing in front of me, my uncle, the person who should be mourning, was laughing. Laughing loudly as if he were at a birthday party.

At that very second, everyone remained silent. The whole room was so quiet that you could even hear one strand of hair touching the other. Slowly, people started whispering, staring, and pointing at Uncle Chris. Grandma was so upset and embarrassed that she made him leave the funeral immediately. Everyone thought he was insane, heartless, and cruel. They even suggested that grandma send him to an asylum. They said they felt sorry for my aunt.

But I wasn’t like them.

Just when Uncle Chris slowly walked out of the door. I saw tears in his laughter. I don’t know why. But I saw it. I saw tears hidden in between one breath and another. Maybe when things gets tragic enough to the point that it can’t go any further, it’ll start to go backwards, and circle around into comedy. Maybe it was too painful for him to cry. Maybe he felt numb. Maybe he just loved her so much that he couldn’t face the truth. Maybe it was a secret between them.

I don’t know.

But I believe the tears in his laughter.

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MAGNUM OPUS Isabella Azevedo

Evonne Lao

People say that life is not like a song, but I beg to differ. I believe that is exactly what life is like. A terribly lovely, lachrymose nocturne, or a turbulent, violent waltz, or perhaps a capricious, fecund impromptu. It does not always have to be the same, I suppose. Life has a way of reducing people to tears, whether it be through its beauty and sentimentality or through its infuriating and painful nature. Sometimes, albeit rarely, life can be invigorating and rapturous and lift you up like a fanfare. Most of the time, though, life is like a symphony; it is everything all at once. It is impossible to distinguish the exact point or emotion it is trying to convey, so you are simply reduced to ineffable passion. Life is like a song. It can build you up and fill you with empyreal emotion, but it can also tear you down and rip you apart just as easily, perhaps even more easily. Life has facile fingers that know precisely how to play the instruments God put before it. We as humans are merely a captive audience waiting to see how this classical composition will play out. We wait with baited breath for our suite to finish and hope that the end does not come too soon.

APPARITION OF ETERNITY Isabella Azevedo

36

Dana Hall

Angy Cervone

Do you ever hear the sound of a clock ticking even when there is no clock in the room? Perhaps there used to be one and hearing the phantom sound is nothing more than a memory of what once was. Or maybe it is more than that. Conceivably the eidolon noise is God’s way of pointing out that time is incessant. No matter how much we wish it would slow down, it is a constant. No matter how much we try to stop it, it is perpetual. No matter how hard we attempt to turn it back, it is linear. Time is omnipresent and will make itself known to all. Sometimes the tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock is soothing and has the ability to lull a person to sleep. Time can be soporific, but it can also be maddening. The sound can be endlessly anxiety inducing. I suppose it is all a matter of perspective and circumstance, as are most things, but why does it haunt some more than others? Maybe that person is destined to do great things for the world and is being prompted to get a move on, or maybe that person simply needs a reminder to go out and live while there is still have time. Time is not merely an illusion, but something amaranthine and intangible. Time demands recognition and respect.

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Jill Campbell Erin (Chaeyeon) Kim

MEMORY OF BEAR ISLAND

38

Dana Hall

Ryland Rich I beam, even with the wind cutting my hair and the spray of the sea slicing at my eyes. The flawlessly varnished rim on the James Adger II endures my tight grip with pride. The scent of baked macaroni and cheese mixes with a pungency only found on old ships and wafts up from the galley to wake my stomach.

Searching for the ledges and lost islands that might scrape the hull, I dread the next inevitable thought that will come into my mind: “Will I ever sail here again?”

My gaze into the clouds dancing over the reflective bay is suddenly obstructed by the presence of an emerald gem, with spruce trees piercing the sky like crystals. The gleam of the geodesic dome catches my eyes, and they skim over the island to the cliffs that do not waver until they lance the ocean floor.

Louisa barks, jumps off and paddles to shore. After securing the mooring we’re off, too, in the dinghy, to meet her again, to fall in love with her once more, her beaches, forests, fields, and mysteries.

The gravel crunches beneath my feet and I’m off. I stop only once I reach the beach rose hedge. The path opens onto a beach. I see a bench carved by the ocean for me. I sit down, brush my hands through the sand, and discover another gift, a silky smooth piece of blue sea glass. “The heart of the ocean,” I imagine to myself. With it, I can see the Penobscot through the eye of a fairy.

Sasha Megie 40

Dana Hall

Ye Ri Lee

Mirage 2016

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IN BLACK AND WHITE Carolynne Liu

42

Dana Hall

the last ones to get on.

We arrive home and Mom opens the door, then rushes to undo the Velcro straps of Annie’s shoes.

“I thought you were going to miss the bus,” Mom chatters. “I was going to call, but I was thinking that…Did you run? Look at all this sweat!” She runs her hand disapprovingly through Annie’s bangs, which cling to her forehead.

I stop and smell the air—is it my imagination? I lift my shirt to my nose, inhaling deeply. Yes, the smell is as strong as ever. The smell of roasted chestnuts, oil, smoke.

“Meimei, do you smell that?” I poke my sister’s shoulder.

“What?” Annie squats and buries her head between her knees. “Oh! Chestnuts!” she raises her head and beams.

I sniff, and find that the smell of roasted chestnuts lingers on my hair, my shirt, Annie’s backpack, everywhere.

It has been five years. The colors of this memory have dulled and the sounds have become distorted, as though I am gazing into a black and white photograph. I don’t recall the street vendor’s face. I don’t remember the exact image of the chestnuts in the pan, or the sizzling sound they made as they slid around in the oil. But the smell will always linger with me and remind me of home.

Tori Alvarez

It is summer vacation. I have just picked up my sister, Annie, from summer school at the local kindergarten, and we walk hand in hand to the bus stop, occasionally sidestepping to avoid bumping into passersby. I am usually the one who drags Annie along to catch the bus, but today, we take our time. We pass a street vendor, a middle-aged woman with a cloth mask stretched over her nose and mouth, tinted brown at the edges. In her right hand, she holds a grey spatula, its shiny silver coat worn with use. She rotates it in circular motions over the large pan before her. With every touch of the spatula, as if by magic, new bursts of smoke bloom through the air. A sweet scent emanates from the pan, warm and musky. I stop and gaze, transfixed.

Annie tugs my hand and looks up at me. “Come on! The bus will leave,” she says urgently.

“Wait, Meimei,” I whisper and motion at the woman, who stands stirring her pan on the edge of the sidewalk. “Sniff the air.”

Annie tilts her head back a little so that her face points up at the sky. Her small face scrunches up with the effort.

Then her eyes widen.

“What’s that smell?” she exclaims.

The scent from before, stronger now, envelops us in a warm embrace.

All around us, people lurch this way and that, briefcases swinging, earphones dangling, bustling to arrive at their next destination maybe only a few minutes late. No one notices the woman; no one notices the oily pan; no one notices the sweet-smelling smoke crackling through the air. I inhale deeply.

“It’s her,” I reply. I lean forward until I can finally see the inside of the pan. “She’s roasting chestnuts…” I close my eyes and breathe in the sweet scent of roasted chestnuts. When I open my eyes, Annie is copying me, her eyelids shut and her nostrils flaring.

“Chestnuts.” Annie nods knowledgeably at the woman. I grasp Annie’s hand and we approach her.

She doesn’t look up at us, even when we stand right in front of her. We watch her practiced movements.

The chestnuts move around the pan, sometimes hopping up into the air, sometimes gliding through the sheen of black on the bottom of the pan. A blue flame flickers beneath it.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the familiar green and white vehicle lumbering past us, on its way to the bus stop—crap. “The bus! Run!” I grab Annie’s hand, and we race through the tide of people. The line of people getting on the bus shortens and I wave frantically at the driver. We are

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STAFF PAGE

Art Editors:

Allegra Florimbi Lauren Nashawaty Sophie Binder Soomin Mah

Literary Editors:

Jacqueline Hayre-PĂŠrez Madison Rivers

Design Editor:

Erin (Chaeyeon) Kim

Staff:

Emma Benkert Katherine Brady Caroline Cohen Abigail Durfee Ida (Wanjing) Jia Ye Ri Lee Molly Madden Anna Park Julia Stento Christiana Thorbecke Saraly Vargas Yifan Xu

Faculty Advisors:

Julia Bucci Mary Ann McQuillan Printed by Watson Printing, Wellesley, MA

Jenna Howard

Editors: