Gateway - 2022

gateway 2022

gateway 2022 Editors-in-Chief: Rosie Ackerman & Becca Miller Secretary: Niva Cohen Faculty Advisor: Hallie Anderson Staff: Catie Broker, Levanah Cohen, Mira Eisenstein, Lila Elkins, Raphael Englander, Ean Geller-Nocella, Jordana Harwitz, Eve Kobell, Brynn Landow, Rachel Loeb, Liana Matez Dedicated in loving memory of Magister Barry Hofstetter Sic transit gloria mundi

Becca Miller Ean Geller-Nocella

2

table of contents Front Cover Back Cover Drawing Final Man The Escape Drawing Butterflies Drawing One More Dollar Painting I Like Running Water and Electricity Tree Drawing Painting The Factory Drawing A Box of Sharp Objects Drawing Life, Death, and Baby Geese Drawing My Love for Autumn in Haiku Form Drawings Nostalgia Drawing No Justice, No Peace Drawing Drawing Contact Drawing My Mind You Never See— My Mind With ADHD Drawings I Believe/I Don't Believe Drawing Leaving Trunk Painting The Lifespan of a Sheep

Eve Isaacs Lila Elkins Ean Geller-Nocella............................. 2 Brandon Singer.................................. 4 Mikaela Garber.................................. 4 Becca Miller........................................ 5 Liana Matez........................................ 6 Becca Miller........................................ 6 Jordana Harwitz................................. 7 Raphael Englander............................. 7 Abby Greenspan................................. 8 Mira Eisenstein.................................. 9 Mira Eisenstein................................ 10 Becca Miller...................................... 11 Ean Geller-Nocella........................... 12 Ean Geller-Nocella........................... 12 Lila Elkins......................................... 13 Rachel Loeb...................................... 14 Rosie Ackerman............................... 15 Rosie Ackerman............................... 15 Jordana Harwitz............................... 16 Mira Eisenstein................................ 16 Eve Kobell......................................... 17 Becca Miller...................................... 17 Niva Cohen....................................... 18 Ean Geller-Nocella........................... 18 Becca Miller...................................... 19 Brandon Singer................................ 20 Ean Geller-Nocella........................... 20 Brynn Landow.................................. 21 Ean Geller-Nocella........................... 21 Jordana Harwitz............................... 22 Becca Miller...................................... 22 Jordana Harwitz............................... 23 Lila Elkins......................................... 23 Ben Zelnick....................................... 24 3

Final Man So, I’m 20 minutes into class, and I’m about to set up AirPlay, and so, obviously I’m not tall enough to reach the projector so I ask Isaac Weintraub to do it. So he’s moving to press the button and I’m on my computer trying to find the documentary and—as soon as I do, I just look up, and I look towards Toby Gabel’s general direction, and he gives me that freaking look with his jaw agape and his eyebrow slightly cocked. OH, YOU KNOW THE FACE. Yes, yes, like he’s psychologically pissing in your eye. So, Toby’s making that face that makes me want a lobotomy, and then, I swear, for a millisecond, I have this, like, supernatural, higher-power kina hura. Like I was receiving some kind of message when I looked at the back of the class and saw him—I swear on my life, Cheryl.

I know this sounds concerning and like, I’m about to sell you a jade egg, but it felt—paranormal.

Well, it was kind of like, you know when you have a dream dream about someone, and you don’t remember until like 3 minutes into talking to them—that actually happened to me when I was talking to Eric—but that’s another story. So, it was like I had a dream about him. Like I saw Toby not as some 17-year old punk, but like, someone I knew in a past life. But it was not a comforting feeling AT ALL. It was like I remembered, in this past life, he was a witch who cursed my family and that’s why none of my aunt’s dogs lives past five now.

So, as he’s giving me the “screw every time you’ve ever experienced joy” face, and I’m having this otherworldly, dark woo-woo vision: I recognize the supernatural feeling. And! It’s not because I knew him in a past life or he was in my dream, but because that face is the exact kind that my girlfriends’ older brothers would give me when I asked to use the TV in their basements to play Glee Karaoke. Or when boys named AJ or Brett would mutter under their breaths in the hallway if they heard me laugh too loud or, like, talk about the Patti LuPone revival of Gypsy to a teacher. Well, my friends were never gonna give a crap. It was actually really good, yeah. She’s my favorite Mama Rose.

BUT, in that split-second I looked at Toby’s butt face, I got so verklempt because I realized I never healed the teenage version of me that allowed boys like Toby to mash my self-worth into smithereens and ruin my life for weeks on end. It’s like my adolescent self is Michael Myers, and me now is Jamie Lee Curtis. And I think I’ve finally defeated him and am truly free. But, I look at his body to make sure he’s dead and I see he’s lying, limp but still alive. And I notice his stomach cascade up and down, and his eyes flutter around the room. And then, I remember he just Can’t. Freaking. Die. And I remember that no matter how safe I feel, he could always creep up right behind me. And I could hear him breathe.

Oh, crap, I have lunch duty in two minutes.

—Brandon Singer

The Escape In the game happiness Joy / Light The filter gone Broken / Failing Without it all is black Darkness / Chaos Without it, time ticks by Slowly / Excruciatingly Faces covered in masks Fearful / Worried / Silence I turn the game back on —Mikaela Garber 4

Becca Miller

5

Butterflies you give me butterflies beautiful confusing butterflies. i look at you and in one instance the butterflies flutter inside me. your hair and eyes your lips and style they all give me butterflies ones i cannot hide but i don’t want to anyway. if you know about the butterflies i think it’s good so you know how much i care and how much i like you deep down inside. so the butterflies keep flying and telling me you’re there. you. and everything you are, make beautiful graceful butterflies fly all around.

—Liana Matez

Becca Miller

6

One More Dollar The wool petticoat swishes gently around her bare ankles as she tiptoes carefully across the stone ledge. A loss of footing would result in soaked dress and girl, muck in her hair, and pebble-pressed bruises freckling forearms. A slight hum escapes her pursed lips as a crystal drop of water plops on her nose. Falling raindrops, quite like falling diamonds, blur the late August sky, latching onto pinned strawberry hair and swirling petticoats. Perhaps it is the daunting autumn mist or the sweet, dewy breeze, but the girl collapses freely on the lushly damp hill.

—Jordana Harwitz

Raphael Englander

7

I Like Running Water and Electricity I would not describe myself as a hiker. Or a camper. Or an outdoors person at all. However, I am there for the experience. We are getting ready, and I’m packing one shirt, the one I’m wearing, and that’s it. This is very foreign to me. Usually, I would pack five or six different shirts for a four-day trip like this, but this is not the time or place for that; everyone says it’s a “tradition” to wear the same crusty white shirt for all four days of Yam Le Yam. I’m not happy about it, but what can I do? This was inevitable.

We are finally embarking on our journey to the middle of nowhere. We get on the bus at an ungodly hour in the morning. Trying to get comfy in those scratchy, rough, red bus seats is a challenge, but nothing we haven’t done before. In hopes of salvaging the little time left to sleep, I doze off onto my hiker boyfriend next to me. We arrive at our so-called destination and get off the bus. Obviously, we need a pee break after our 45-minute drive because 16-year-olds have bladders the size of goldfish, so I find a nice-looking bush and take a squat. After checking off all the necessary items on the list, we gather into a circle on a rocky beach. Random Israelis are fishing about ten feet away. We hear a speech about our ancestors and the Jewish nation or something. They tell us we are starting at the Mediterranean Sea and after four short days, we will be at the Kineret. Let me tell you now: those four days are anything but short. Next, our madrichim start handing out things we’ll need on our journey, including a red bucket hat, a journal with our names, and a half-roll of toilet paper. Now we have everything we need to begin.

We start to walk. And walk. And walk. This act seems simple, however, the three liters of water and other miscellaneous items in my bag are not making it any easier; neither is the extremely rocky and uneven terrain we are hiking across. Our teachers keep telling us "This is the easy part,” and I think, “I might as well quit now.”

But alas, that isn’t an option, so I keep trudging along. To be honest, I can’t even tell you any more details about the day because I don’t even remember anything more. I’ve created a mental block of this horrid uphill hiking.

So, let’s skip to the evening. Finally, after a long day of hiking 13 kilometers, we get to our campsite. The sun has already partially set, which means it will get dark. Yay. Everything has been set up for us: tents in a circle and bamboo rugs with our suitcases in the middle, and that's it. My tent-mates and I pick a tent and go inside to change. Inside, I find the whole tent covered in dirt. There is dirt in the tent. The one place that I thought I would find some sanctuary — this is probably the worst part of this already-horrible day. But again, I have no other option.

Having gone through enough in that white HSI shirt for one day, I needed to get into new clothes. We go for dinner, which surprisingly isn’t so bad, and sit on those dirty bamboo rugs. The sun is setting, making a beautiful cotton candy sky for our dinner entertainment—yellows, pinks, and purples mix before our eyes as we eat scalding hot soup. The entire grade goes around debriefing from our day. We all share someone we are grateful for.

This little act of kindness is just what everyone needed after a day like this. The chaos from this day all melted away at this moment, and there was calm. The wind is blowing, the air is perfectly cool, and I see the cute, dirty faces sitting in front of me. The earth and I are finally on the same wavelength. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.

8

—Abby Greenspan

Tree Young Budding, baby, breakable A sapling barely budding Fragile, broken with a touch Peeking out of the soil First breath of the world Beginning a cycle Life ahead waiting to grow old

Moss adds pops of green An occasional yellow Intricate patterns raised and engraved Indented paths, veins Connection of the roots and branches Leading from the highest point to the lowest reach Connected to the roots drawing in water Holding the weight of the branches

Old Powerful, persistent, prevailing Ancient still standing Life ongoing Possibly 100 maybe 1,000 years It will never be known Survived every storm Prevailing through the rain Lightning strikes and yet it lives Scars left sharing a story Etched into the bark

Branches Slender, stretched, spread Reaching to the sky Division of the trunk Numerous and uncountable Winding and twisting Tangling with each other Undifferentiated, which is which From the ends sprouts leaves

Bark Shades, stratiform, shields Multicolor Browns of different shades Undertones of all colors yet all brown Some orange, others green, yellow even All colors collide blending together Unable to tell where one color stops And where another starts Scales of wood creeping on the tree Some smoothed, some cracking Others peeling off Sacrificed, protecting everything within Layered colors, patterns, textures Joining together creating a trunk Trunk Strong, sturdy, standing tall Main piece, needed to survive Essential for life Center of being Hard unwavering Continuous pattern Moss adds pops of green An occasional yellow

Leaves Light, lush, lively, lissome Flat, thin as paper Weightless swaying in the wind Catching light displaying greens Vibrant greens of every shape Hues of yellow and brown Each one a unique color In autumn a tradition Fiery reds, yellows, and oranges Every a different shape Ellipticals, ovals, truncates 3 sections or 4 or 5 Some of every variety No two look the same but All serve the same purpose Gathering light, making food Keeping the tree alive

—Mira Eisenstein

Scan me!

9

Mira Eisenstein

10

Becca Miller 11

The Factory Noxious fumes filled the air, a sulfurous stench blanketing the halls of the dying factory. Rusting fans revolved, slowly circulating stale, stinking air. Yellowed glass walls, opaque with dust and age, the remnants of long-lost industrial grandiosity. Beams of sunlight highlight idling metallic machinery, towering cylinders and molding leather conveyor belts, chains unbound, bulbs extinguished, abandoned to the slow deterioration of time. A network of pipes snakes from the crusty, waterlogged ceiling to the cold concrete floor, darting in and out of the expired contraptions. Broken bottles, brittle bones. Flecks of blood form vivid constellations of bygone happenings.

Yet most striking of all, like sculptures in a garden, stand the automatons — frighteningly anthropoid, grotesquely contorted, frozen in a moment of time. Bronze plating has given way to the elements, oxidized to a garish, offputting green. Along the conveyor belts, dozens of robots stand in a line, bulkly, cable-laden arms raised in the air, almost in solidarity with their mechanical brethren. Forgotten comrades break otherwise orderly rows, unnoticed and unappreciated. Atop the balconies above, spindly overseers are permanently on the job, collapsed over the railings.

Pieces more proportional to the human body litter the belts and fill moldy wooden boxes, humanesque hands mimicking a man down to the digits, forever waiting to be assembled. The sun now beats down on the factory, ancillary rays becoming overbearing, deep contrast between the light and shadow. The faces of the machines are forlorn, emotionless. Under their alloyed corpses, rests evidence of mankind’s fatal touch — decaying books, cracked coffee mugs, torn hats — shattered skulls, a rotting ribcage. A letter, its yellowed paper obscured by a shattered inkwell. The sky has become angry, a violent orange battefield thick with aggressive pink clouds chasing away the last of the blue sky. The violent screech of a door knocked open breaks the longstanding silence of the factory. Heavy footsteps fling up years of dust and debris as the intruder makes cautionary strides towards the heart of the building. Windswept clouds in swift retreat reveal the presence of the rising moon, accentuating the mechanical mortuary. The person saunters around, surveying the sorry state of the factory. Their eyes connect with the automatons, barely visible under lunar light. Spooked, they surge towards the exit, perhaps fearful of what could be there, unable to accept what is. A purple haze shrouds the building in shadow, as it falls into the jet-black embrace of night. Under the embrace of the moon, all are equal in death. We cannot all be masters, nor all masters cannot be truly followed.

—Ean Geller-Nocella

Ean Geller-Nocella

12

A Box of Sharp Objects A glass castle bundled in an oasis of everything I’d been conditioned to define as beautiful laid before me in a garden of metallic Manolo Bhalniks and hangers of every clothing item that graced the pages of the past month’s Vogue. A pink cloud of powdery blush floated across the room causing the air to shimmer. I fluttered that day, metamorphosing into a butterfly that was utterly bewitched by the beauty this room of creation held.

But the butterfly didn’t realize that her wings were too fat to fit through the door. That day I was thirteen and I was chubby and I had fingers that didn’t fit rings and a waist that didn’t fit the preteen sizes provided for me by stores such as Old Navy, Gap, or, God forbid, the sinning corporation of Forever 21 worn by a 7th grader. My mother’s comments about ill-fitting clothing and the emerging popularity of ‘one-size-fits-small’ brands—like Brandy Melville—didn’t help my case of being too large a person for Lower Merion society. Alas, I was enraptured by paper magazines and shining chiffon dresses, and heels, boots, belts, hats, tops, jeans, jackets, peplum skirts, blush, bronzer, lipstick, and anything a designer brand could slap their pretty label on. The second a glimmering envelope adorning my name arrived at the door I jumped with glee, my 100-year-old house creaking as I landed.

“It says I’ve been invited to a photoshoot, Mom!” I yelled through braced-teeth and thin walls.

Every year Vogue magazine invites thirty or so lucky subscribers to visit a single-day photoshoot set in New York City. That year, after emailing an uncle who knew an intern who knew an assistant who knew an editor at Vogue, my name was finally added to the list. I meticulously planned my outfit: a dark floral mid-length skirt with brown cowboy boots, my mom’s belt from Arizona, an olive green tank top, and a cream knit long cardigan with little hand knit flowers sewn onto the bottom. My mom wore brown jeans and a fanny pack.

The night fell into morning as birds mellifluously sang into my ears and it was time to take the twelve o’clock train to Manhattan. Gushing with excitement, I stepped through double doors a worker had led us to. Heaven, I thought. Beauty perfected by the hands of God. Skyscrapers of skinny women sauntered in heels that could stab me. Mirrors reflected large lips, and painted faces, paintings in progress, and a woman who even with no makeup could have been confused for a goddess. “Oh, sorry, ma’am, I must have confused you with Aphrodite, no please, my mistake.”

It was a dream, with every piece of Gucci, Dior, Chanel, Balmain, Balenciaga, Valentino just sitting there ready to be worn; a slinky girl slipped into a gown to my left, a blowdryer blared to my right, it was a dream; flowing fabrics and running people with clipboards, a table of strawberries left for the crew and people actually wearing sunglasses indoors, it was a dream; ahead of me, a line of models waiting to step on a scale to meet their daily mark… it was a dream… that left a bruise when you woke up. Suddenly a rickety current rippled through the room, causing my glass castle to shatter a little. The camera flashed and I jumped, feverishly squirming in my own skin. As she posed with a spotlight enhancing her weightless features, she moved like water, but I was drowning.

I recently found an old journal with a page dedicated to how to suppress someone’s hunger, and tips on how to lose weight fast. Something large swells in me when I read those pages and think about the day it began in the room of that photoshoot in the industry I had prayed to since childhood. When God turns his back on you, where the hell else are you supposed to go? So I didn’t leave at all. Instead I fell more and more into an obsession with fashion, makeup, mirrors, smaller plate sizes, apple cider vinegar, Smooth Move tea, toilet bowls, fingers, and throats. But they were all so beautiful. And even if I was decaying myself, flying low with a clipped wing, I still attempted to grasp a shard of the glass castle that was the beauty industry; forever holding on, tighter and tighter with a growing waist, until my hands bled and I was drained of every beautiful drop of self-love I had left.

I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.

—Lila Elkins

13

Rachel Loeb

14

Life, Death, and Baby Geese

Rosie Ackerman

Grief is a funny thing. It’s the worst feeling in the world. It’s one of two things that we will all go through (the second, of course, being death). It’s love with nowhere to go, or at least that’s what the movies say. For me, it’s mostly been waiting, and sobbing into my parents’ arms, and answering with a strangled noise and a shrug to every teacher who asks “Are you okay?" and denial. I keep walking into the building expecting to see his face; I do, in a way, but it’s on the board set up in the lobby in his memory. His name and dates are under the photo. I can’t look at it.

I wrote him a letter the day before he died. I remember learning that his wife had read it to him, and thinking “What the hell do I do now?” — because I had gotten closure, technically, but I felt like I had a million things left to say. I still do. I think I always will.

I knew at that point that the day would come, and soon. Turns out I didn’t have long to wait.

I was home alone when I found out. I had been lying on my bed, telling my dog about my day (he’s the least judgmental person I’ve ever spoken to) and I went downstairs to check my phone. The text had arrived from his wife fifteen minutes earlier.

I walked my dog that night as the sun was setting. As I watched the sky deepen to navy behind the trees, I thought, This is the last sun he ever saw. This is the last day he will ever know. Tomorrow, I will wake up to a day that he won’t be alive for. Every day afterward, I will wake up to the same thing. I prayed for the sky to stay light for just a minute longer. I wasn’t ready to cross that bridge, between Life With Him and Life Without Him. But I had to. The sky didn’t listen. Time moved on. (She always does, that bitch).

No one knows exactly what to say. I’ve gotten everything from “At least he wasn’t in pain” (which makes me feel genuinely violent) to a deeply awkward, yet well-meaning “I’m sorry, that sucks” (which is unsurprising — we’re young and know nothing about the world) to “Please tell me if there’s anything I can do” (I won’t, and there isn’t, but thank you). I think the best thing is just a big hug, if I’m being honest. Maybe I just like hugs.

I was walking down the hallway to my locker a few days after he died when I saw a small gaggle of people gathered around the window, oohing and aahing at something outside. “It’s the geese!” someone said. “Their babies hatched! Look!”

I shouldered my way to the front of the group and looked out. A mother goose was lying in a patch of grass, her mate keeping watch. Next to her was a big blob of brown and yellow fluff. I counted six goslings, all falling on top of each other. Brand new. All they knew of this world was softness and warmth.

My mom likes to say that when God closes a door, he opens a window. I’ve always found that line cheesy and terrible, but right then, watching those baby geese stumble around, I realized that maybe she was on to something.

Mr. Hofstetter is gone. That much I know. But no energy in the universe is created, and none is destroyed.

(That’s the first law of thermodynamics, but it’s also a line from Agents of SHIELD, which is the show I forced him to watch from beginning to end.) Maybe reincarnation is real, and as he died a baby was born somewhere, one with a moustache and big nerdy glasses whose first words will be fully formed Latin conjugations. Or maybe he lives on in one of those geese.

The thought made me smile, and it made me want to start crying all over again. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.

—Rosie Ackerman 15

My Love for Autumn in Haiku Form Shed from aging oak Fragile as an untouched heart Crackle under converse Sprinkled trees a cave Cinnamon scented shadow Autumn’s mystic hum

Mira Eisenstein

Bath of golden light Falls through leaves; bless the whim Sign to lonely writer on wood bench A final breath Must depart from autumn peace On ivy speckled path

Mira Eisenstein

—Jordana Harwitz

16

Nostalgia It’s nine-thirty on a bright, chilly Sunday morning as I return to my bedroom after a harrowing baby ballet lesson. My five-year-old self, still in a little pink tutu, strides over to the Cinderella-inspired CD player and presses play on 'Speak Now' by Taylor Swift. I dance and sing in front of the towering floor-length mirror, immersing myself in the energetic beats masking sorrowful lyrics. Surrounding me are bubblegum-pink walls decorated with my own artwork, hanging proudly and without a shred of my own judgment. Sun pours through the slotted blinds, casting a cool light that calms me immediately.

My childhood bedroom, with all its clutter and smallness, creates an intense sense of nostalgia for simpler times. A closet packed to the brim with ballet costumes, the overstuffed bookcase and a low bed with around fifteen stuffed animals filled my room with joy and energy. Inside this room, my only concerns were people-watching through the slits in the window, and how to maneuver myself so as not to knock down a shelf. I felt safe and loved, guarded every night by the princess-shaped nightlight that stood upon the dresser. I vividly remember reading the abridged version of Little Women under this light during a booming thunderstorm, but the soft coziness enveloped me in a hug, reminding me that the storm would soon pass.

A few years later, a crib was built opposite my bed and a changing table in place of my bookshelf, but nothing much changed. I still took ballet lessons, read avidly, and loved Taylor Swift. Now, I would interpret my baby sister as invading my privacy, but then, I welcomed her with open arms and an open door. For years, I tried to be the perfect older sister (and sometimes mother) to her, but some time ago I just gave up. On my worst days, my room comforted me and created a sense of peace in my mind. I remember reading the entire Percy Jackson series in the corner of the room, surrounded by so many plush pillows it was as if I were a mouse under the snow.

This tiny, mediocre rose-colored room supported me throughout childhood, from my first “big girl” bed to tying my very first pair of shimmering pointe shoes, excitement and pride coursing through my body. But good things never last. The place that had been my home and safe haven was converted into an office, but I always carry the memories I made there.

—Eve Kobell

Becca Miller 17

No Justice, No Peace Bedroom. Angry cries sounded from the Walnut Street bridge. A sea of faces and marching bodies drew my gaze away from my screen, whose tantalizing blue shine had lost its allure after months of virtual class. The protest raged only a block away, in my city, in my country. But the thick floor-to-ceiling window of my upscale center-city apartment separated me from the crowd. The protesters blended into an indistinguishable blob so they had no individual features or gaits, forming a fearsome and menacing wave that ebbed and flowed. “Say his name!” — the call was one splash in the relative calm. “George Floyd!!” — an explosion, not just flowing but overflowing with the force of the response. I longed to feel swept up in the surge but knew I’d be apart as long as those windows buffered me from the voices below and the reality they represented.

Out the door. Ten minutes later, I was nodding to my doorman as I left the high-rise behind me. I had emailed my last period teacher that something had come up and summoned my sister out the door. I hoped that I could bridge the emotional distance I had felt since George Floyd’s murder. As with so many others in my privileged bubble, the constant stream of tragic but remote incidents had desensitized me so that my sadness felt muted. I craved the raw anger. I craved the activists’ passion and the victims’ pain, their gut response. By joining them, I reasoned, maybe I could become them in their unquestioning vehemence.

Walnut Street. We met the mob as they continued down the bridge. Finally, as I had planned, I was of them physically.

My movement was not my own. All I could do was grip my sister’s hand, and the wave whisked us away. What a relief it was to go where they went and let go of my own inhibitions. No, not a relief; a gleeful adrenaline rush. I couldn’t change direction even if I wanted to as we flowed forward in pulses of feeling. In this way, the view from my bedroom had not misled me — the distance had not obscured distinct gaits in the crowd because there were no distinct gaits. We were one.

I was one among many.

West Philly. We passed a cluster of cops on the other side of the divider, and the dam broke, releasing a torrent of fury.

People pointed their fingers and hollered profanities, emboldened by the black-and-white, good guys/bad guys mentality that allowed them to feel so outraged in the first place. The police officers cowered. I saw the fear in their eyes as one raised a fist in solidarity and was met, just like his colleagues, with jeers and stomps. As I watched, I felt the distance expand once more. I was no longer a drop in a vast and billowing sea. I couldn’t be. The bond of belonging had broken — like the hydrogen bonds between H2O molecules that I was learning about in chemistry, which are the weakest kind. Like the detached molecules, I had the same components as those surrounding me. We shared opinions and politics and anger, but I wasn’t affixed in the way they were to each other.

City Hall. A short woman with a blue buzz cut had drifted to the front of the group: “Say her name!” We responded in unison: “Breonna Taylor!!” A distant voice: “No justice, no peace!” Surrounding protesters: “No justice, no peace!” And louder. And more passionate. Me: “No justice, no peace!” It grew more rhythmic, more melodic, and I sunk into the chant.

I was lost in the sounds, echoing them, until suddenly: “No good cops in a racist system!” As the words burst from my lips, I snapped back into focus. Do I believe this? Is this me? I scanned the mob. They moved and spoke robotically, their eyes cloudy. They don’t even know what they’re saying. As discomfort replaced the tempting pull of the indoctrinating cries, I was an outsider. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.

Ean Geller-Nocella

—Niva Cohen

18

Becca Miller

19

Contact I first spoke with Huey moments after we shared a look of recognition, seeping with an unnerving sense of affinity, as though we were siblings or lovers in a past life.

“Cool shorts!” he remarked as he walked by the lifeguard’s stand towards the locker room.

“Thanks!” I remarked automatically, not remembering the exact shorts I was wearing.

After processing our interaction, I felt unfrozen enough to glance down at my shorts, clocking the logo for Charli XCX’s last tour.

I doubted he recognized the logo, as I gauged he was about 30 years too old to know who Charli XCX was, but the familiarity with which he acknowledged it reaffirmed the kinship that our glance suggested.

I don’t know how Huey knew I was gay, or how I knew he was. But our conversation the following week was riddled with the shorthand that indicated nothing needed to be said explicitly.

“Yeah, it’s much better than high school. I feel way freer, and like, at peace,” I spilled as Huey asked me about college between laps along the deep end.

“You’re majoring in music production, you said?” Huey asked after swimming towards the lifeguard’s stand.

“Yeppp.”

“Who are your favorite artists?” he asked.

As a response began to take shape in my mouth, I felt a reluctance to speak. The words lodged in my throat like a marble. I stayed in contemplative silence for a few seconds, fearing he wouldn’t recognize any artists I listed.

I imagined Huey giving a nod of feigned familiarity, only to swim away, our exchange irrevocably short-circuited.

“Uhhhh, I really like Diana Ross. Adore Cass Elliot. I’ve really been into The Velvet Underground recently.”

“Wow! You have quite the eclectic taste. Does your music sound like theirs?”

“Ehhhh, kinda. You can definitely — detect their influence.”

“Well, now, you’re gonna have to let me listen.”

“Oh — sure. I can — definitely email it to you,” I said, snickering at my absurd suggestion that I had his contact information.

“Yeah! I’ll give you my email and number when I get out,” he stated before swimming towards the end of the lane.

My stomach dropped slightly after that moment, with the sense of subtle overstimulation one feels on the swings at an amusement park. Here I was, my legs dancing above concrete. And Huey was the wind swirling around me like pleasant whiplash. I felt a lightness take over my lower body. Closing my eyes, I envisioned myself floating above all that encompassed the pool and the gym and the building and the planet. The farther Huey traveled towards the pool’s end, the higher I felt I was levitating. Yet, each time he swam towards the stand, it was like I was back on earth again, catching my breath, realizing that it’s me who inhabits my body.

Ean Geller-Nocella

—Brandon Singer

20

My Mind You Never See—My Mind With ADHD The Screech of the pencil The Tap of the shoe.

The Voice of the teacher My Thoughts — oh so few.

The Sound of heavy breathing In deep — and then Out What are they asking?

What’s it about?

I look at the Clock And all that I see Is time running out Running out on me.

The Marker on the board No words — Just EEEEEK The fidgets keep turning With that dreadful SQUEEEK The Crinkling of paper The moving of chairs.

The Kids in my class With Know-It-All stares.

Why is it so hard For my mind to see Why am I living With ADHD?

—Brynn Landow

Ean Geller-Nocella 21

I Believe

I Don’t Believe

Chocolate is medicine People sometimes suck Dogs>people High school sucks School doesn’t teach us important things Society is screwed Camp is savior Pajamas are necessary Taylor Swift supremacy In La Colombe supremacy Coffee is joy In climate change In astrology In kind people In the healing power of a good hug In mental health days In pineapple pizza In oat milk Music is therapy The Office is superior

School has a right to regulate our outside lives Men in gov’t have a right to control a woman’s body In white chocolate In Alex Karev’s write-off Izzie Stevens How One Direction was treated In skincare by Hyram Being kicked in the balls is more painful than giving birth That Travis Scott didn’t see the ambulances Bella Hadid`s nose In Helen Keller In my parents’ lifestyle In millennials In right person, wrong time In cow milk The gov’t is transparent and honest Standardized tests In perfection —Jordana Harwitz

Becca Miller 22

Leaving Trunk

Lila Elkins

Clinks and splishes followed by slurred CHEEEERS echo through the streets. Terry heaves a chuckle and reminisces about his good ole days as the tractor moseys along its merry way. A block down, a small crowd had gathered around a street band, whistling as the young singer crooned a verse of Erie Canal. Terry recalls the endless hot dogs and soda pops that had been shared on that very corner as a youngling. As the truck crushes a few stray hay pieces, Terry exchanges kind greetings with the candy shop owner, librarian, auto shop guy (who also doubled as his high school football coach). Everyone knew Terry here. He’d never left the town. They watched him grow, graduate, cry, and thrive. They also would have known the palling corpse in the back of Terry’s tractor if she had been sitting in the passenger seat laughing alongside him. ­—Jordana Harwitz

23

The Lifespan of a Sheep Toward the end of class, my bubbly math teacher, Mrs. Stewart, distributed a word problem—some convoluted scenario about a farmer counting sheep. She whirled spiritedly around the room, drawing green smiley faces on completed worksheets. The numbers swam on my page as numbers from a nearby rehearsal of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown seeped under the door. The lunch bell rang, and I stared at the blank worksheet as my classmates’ voices faded down the hallway. Mrs. Stewart immediately recognized my muddled expression, walked to the whiteboard, and drew three sheep-shaped splotches. She shook her head, giggling at the unimpressive illustrations.

In the auditorium, Snoopy began singing “The Red Baron.”

“So, James,” Mrs. Stewart said, connecting the lamb, ewe, and ram with arrows, “if each ewe gives birth to two sheep every year, and if the lifespan of a sheep is only—” Down the hallway, there was a muffled pop. Bewildered, Mrs. Stewart and I locked eyes. Her pink marker tumbled to the floor. Four more bangs. Screams. A middle schooler ducked into the classroom. “The Red Baron” stopped abruptly, and the disembodied voice of the receptionist reverberated from the PA speakers: “Lockdown, active shooter.” He hesitated. “This is not a drill.”

Disbelief and then terror filled Mrs. Stewart’s eyes as she fumbled with the door lock. My body hurtled across the room and crumpled into a corner. Miles away, Mrs. Stewart unfurled heavy black curtains over the windows, extinguished the lights, and barricaded the door.

The middle schooler, a skinny boy in a Call of Duty t-shirt and enormous glasses, froze mid-stride. Mrs. Stewart called him to the corner as she opened the emergency attendance app on her phone and squinted at the name on the boy’s identification card. She checked off both of our names and scrolled down to a list of her three children, all of whom attended our school. Two of the names were marked with green checkmarks, but the third name—Judy Stewart, a radiant girl who played Charlie Brown in the show—had a red triangle next to it.

Mrs. Stewart gasped and clutched her chest. “Judy’s in rehearsal,” she whispered. She stood up and opened the door slightly. A vile white light spilled into the room. “Stay where you are.” The Call of Duty boy looked at her, wide-eyed. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “James will take care of you.” The door clicked shut, and we were alone in the unquiet darkness.

Sirens wailed outside. I heard a piercing gunshot followed by a crushing thud. An electrifying chill raced down my spine. Sweat—or maybe tears—trickled down my face. Grasping blindly for a makeshift shield, I found a heavy volume of Foundations of American Democracy and held it to my chest. As my heart pounded against the book, I crept, shivering, into the hallway. I grabbed one of Mrs. Stewart’s arms, pulled her back into the room, and pressed my sweatshirt sleeve frantically against the wound on the back of her neck.

By the time I realized that the door was still open, it was too late. There was another deafening gunshot. Pain sliced through my side, and then there was blackness.

When I woke up, it was dark outside. Despite the cold light of the ICU, I felt darkness everywhere. On the television, a stoic news anchor droned about yet another school shooting. A crude infographic enumerated the “dead” with twelve ovals and the “injured” with twenty. I realized that I was one of these ovals. An image of an immense morgue, filled with rows upon rows of faceless shapes on white gurneys, flashed through my mind. The anchor mumbled a line that had become second-nature: “At WXN, our hearts go out to the victims and their families.” The screen faded to a Cheerios commercial.

The coverage ended at 10:30 PM. Across the country, Americans reassured themselves that the shooting had happened far from their bubble of safety. As I lay under a thin hospital blanket, they drifted off to sleep in plush beds. In D.C., politicians stayed up drafting and debating bills. A motion extending Congress’s “genuine condolences” was approved unanimously, but over the next few weeks, the gun control bills were all struck down.

The police pursue the gunman, the gunman pursues the students, the students pursue the politicians, and the politicians busy themselves in pursuit of justice. But in the end, there is no change, for America herself has resigned—weary, exhausted—from the duty to protect her children. Ultimately, there are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.

—Ben Zelnick 24