Gateway 2025

gateway

2025

Gateway 2025 Editors-in-Chief: Ariella Eisenstadt and Odelia Krasner-Friedman Faculty Advisor: Hallie Anderson Staff: Sheyenne Abraham, Yoni Bleier, Asher Decherney, Drew Fiergang, Abby Gober, Adi Keinan, Eve Kobell, Emily Kushnick, Aviva Markowitz, Cici Miller, Ayelet Seltzer, Ariel Shavit

Special thanks to Rachel Sussman, art teacher extraordinaire, and Ben Wachtel, technical advisor

Dedicated to all our friends and family who fill our memories with laughter, tears, and love

Aviva Markowitz

Table of Contents Front and Back Cover Art Drawing Drawing Houses, Hotels, and Home Drawing Am I Dead Yet? Untitled Drawing Drawing Echoes of a Name Painting The Song of Angels Photo Frosted Secrets The Secretary’s Bad Eye Painting Skunk Friends The Dog For Me: An Adoption to Remember Woodcut Fallen Leaf Painting The Vineyard and the Hat A Bus & A Bouquet Mixed Media Truths Drawing Dear Future Husband...

I Found You, I Found ME Loose Strands Mixed Media

Claire Englander Aviva Markowitz......................2 Aviva Markowitz......................4 Ariella Eisenstadt.....................5 Amitai Freidenreich.................5 Noa Singer.................................6 Jonah Pappas............................7 Maya Serotta.............................7 Drew Fiergang..........................7 Ezra Aslan.................................8 Emily Kushnick........................8 Eve Kobell...............................10 Ariella Eisenstadt...................10 Ariella Eisenstadt...................10 Maya Serotta...........................12 Lila Faden................................13 Cici Miller...............................14 Asher Decherney...................15 Ayelet Seltzer..........................15 Yoni Bleier...............................16 Eli Koch Mishael....................16 Josh Bartle...............................17 Margot Englander..................18 Eliora Lesack...........................19 B.B. Friedman.........................20 Anna Salpeter.........................21 Ariel Shavit.............................22 Odelia Krasner Friedman.....24 Sami Neff.................................24

Aviva Markowitz

4

Houses, Hotels, and Home

Amitai Freidenreich

The dice clatter around the board, dancing in a way that taunts and excites me. The clock clicks too slowly as I edge closer, willing the dice to roll in my favor. Board games have always captivated me with their thrilling colors, endless strategy, and guaranteed smack talk. This night’s pick is a classic: Monopoly. The scent of Shabbat lingers as I let out a sigh and sink into my chair, stuffed to the brim with crispy potatoes, salty roasted vegetables, savory smoked chicken, and rich chocolate babka. The dishes clank in the sink as we clear the table, and my mother promises she’ll clean them later. I sneak a knowing glance at my dad since we both know that she will not do the dishes; she will be asleep on the couch, and he will clean them while I keep him company (an activity that usually includes a Seinfeld episode or Sebastian Maniscalco’s comedy set on Passover). The Shabbat candles flicker, my mom brings over the tea, I claim the shoe token, while my younger sister, Rachel, claims my dad as her partner, and the game begins. Elena, my older sister, is reassuring us that she’s “in it for real this time” and “we should watch out,” but we all know that by the time round two arrives and her luck wears out, she will politely excuse herself, leaving my dad and I to fight over who gets to keep her money. He argues that it’s the bank’s, while I counter by reminding him of her Monopoly will, where she gave me her green properties and 500-dollar bills.

My focus can’t be broken, even at eight, and I’m intrigued by my dad’s explanation that the Boardwalk and Parkway (the blue properties) aren’t as good as one might think, since they’re overpriced and less likely to be landed on, since there are only two of them. Of course, he explains this after I’ve already traded my card to him, so let’s just say I don’t exactly thank him warmly for the insights.

At this point, Rachel leaves the table to watch TV, and my mom is curled up in a blanket on the couch, leaving my dad and me alone. You’d think a single victory in a Monopoly resume littered with foreclosures would teach me to surrender, but he also taught me the word “resilient at the age of four, so there I sit, hunched over mortgaged properties, piecing together rent in crumpled fives and lonely ones, refusing to fold. These nights often ended in watery eyes and an occasional flipped board.

Now, when the dice rattle on the board, memories rush through my mind of overfilled bellies, boisterous laughter, and incredible smack talk. The clock seems to tick faster now, with 10:30 bringing emails and adolescent eye rolls instead of dice. As I head upstairs, I remember Elena’s two reluctant rounds, my mom’s yawn-filled turns, and my dad’s smug grin as he welcomes me to my overpriced stay at his newly built hotel. The same flickering Shabbat candles and post-dinner aroma linger—the board game is missing, but the memories still light the room.

—Ariella Eisenstadt

5

Am I Dead Yet? Okay, so maybe it’s fine. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just, you know, that paranoid feeling, like an itch you just can’t reach. I read somewhere, no, maybe someone told me, that sometimes, when you’re really nervous about something, your mind can make your body believe it is real. Actually, maybe I just thought it. Like that time a few years ago, at that bat mitzvah, when I ate caramel ice cream before gasping for air as my throat started to close.

Boom. Just like that, my night full of carefree fun was ruined as I sped away in an ambulance towards the Emergency Room. As we drove, I gasped for air at every speed bump and aggressively clawed at my red, irritated skin as I felt the nausea churning in my stomach. Except I wasn’t having an allergic reaction. I just convinced myself that I was. Maybe it doesn’t matter what actually happened. Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is that I ate that ice cream without knowing what was in it, so I could just as easily have had a real allergic reaction. But here’s the thing: this time is different. I checked the label. I swear I did. Twice, three times. No, it was four—I made sure!

I always make sure because, you know, one little slip, and it’s all over. But what if they messed up the label? People make mistakes. Even machines make mistakes! And what if—no, this is real, not a story—I read about this recall last year because they mislabeled something and someone actually died.

Okay, fine, it’s fine. I’m not swelling. I’m breathing. It’s all in my head. I remember once, I watched this documentary about, like, psychosomatic stuff, where your mind tricks your body into thinking you’re sick. It’s like the time when I thought I had poison ivy because everyone else had poison ivy, and I started feeling itchy. But I wasn’t itchy. Not really. But I might be itchy now. No, I’m just imagining it.

Hold up. It’s real. This is happening. My throat is closing up. I can feel it. Except, except, if it were truly closing up, I wouldn’t be able to talk. That’s what my mom said, anyway. But she’s the one who always said I was dramatic, that I was just fine, even when I broke my foot, and she thought I was faking.

“Just wrap yourself up and go back in the game. I know you’ll be fine,” except I wasn’t. But I’m not broken now.

I’ll keep telling myself that. I’m not crazy, right? I mean, here I am, breathing, counting breaths like a lifeline. If I can count them, I’m okay, even if I feel something there, clawing at my throat.

Shit. I’m spiraling. I know I am, I can see it, but I can’t pull back. How do I tell the difference between truth and just the shadow of it?

Okay, the truth is, I ate it, and I’m not dead yet. But I could be. Maybe I’m sitting here trying to tell myself a story, trying to calm down, and it’s not working. Or maybe this is the part of the story where the truth is that I’m fine. Or maybe it’s where the truth is that I should’ve called 911 five minutes ago.

But okay, let’s be real. But what does that even mean? What’s the truth when your body’s playing tricks on you, and your mind is just feeding it lines? My throat’s not closing up, or maybe it is. I’m talking, but that could be a lie, too. I’m here, on this edge, not sure if it’s solid or just the story I’m telling myself to get through the day. I’m chasing that certainty, the thing that says, “You’re fine; it’s all in your head.” But that’s the trick. The head can’t be trusted, not when it’s tangled up in fear like this, weaving its own little nightmare.

No, I’m alright. I’m still here, still talking, still conscious. But what about that whispering doubt? That creeping dread that says maybe this time the story doesn’t have a happy ending? Am I okay? Maybe that never really mattered because the fear is real, and it’s been driving the story all along. So maybe the real question isn’t whether I’m okay right now. Maybe it’s whether I’ll ever be.

—Noa Singer

6

Untitled It’s the greatest land to live on Where tragedy is original and sin counts for half The advertisers bark the praises out While the imprisoned sing Blood on limestone walls mark the places But Don’t ya know that brick hides the stains better?

It’s all about finding the next step Until it’s backwards Because progress is both the destination and the tool And the journey is the bodies that line the streets we walk on So tear that statue down Because that will bring them back But mocking catharsis can’t be right So turn around and accept that you’re wrong And when it’s swept under the rug please tread lightly —Jonah Pappas Maya Serotta

Drew Fiergang 7

Echoes of a Name It was barely light outside when I woke up, on the kind of dreary day that makes you question why you even decided to open your eyes. As I looked out of my one small window, the world seemed black and white, as if the colors had been washed away by the gloomy pre-dawn light of a cloud-covered sun. I got out of bed and padded around my squalid apartment, trailing my fingers along its cracked, paper-thin walls.

“Only a few more hours”, I reminded myself aloud. I find talking aloud makes it much easier to bear long periods of time without going crazy. Or maybe I’m already crazy. After all, what sane person would ever find themselves in my situation?

Per my usual morning routine, I boiled some tea in an old discolored pot. As the unmelodious whine of the teapot grew higher and higher, I bit down on a stale piece of bread. Removing the tea from the stove, I rubbed my bleary eyes and steeled my nerves for the crucial day ahead. If all went according to plan, my seven months of hard work would pay off and I would finally be able to return home. But enough wishful thinking. Now it was time to prepare for the day ahead.

The dusty floorboards creaked and wheezed as I stood up in front of the broken mirror, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. Just like I had done every day for the past seven months, I repeated the phrase I had grown to know so well out loud: “My name is Thomas O’Brien. I was born April 21, 1909. My occupation is a grocer. I have two sons, and a daughter. I am a widower.” I opened my eyes. Now in character, I donned Thomas’s signature dark green bowler hat and trench coat. Stepping into my—or his—shiny black loafers, I took one last look in the mirror and examined my face more closely. Months of aliases and disguises had turned my beard gray and put creases in my forehead. Lastly, I took a small blinking device from the dresser and put it in the back pocket of my pants.

I took one last look at the sorry figure in front of me and walked out the door. As I stepped over the threshold, I turned back to the apartment I had been stuck in for all this time—the peeling paint, the dead light bulb—and I promised myself that I would never, ever go back.

I hurried out of the building and onto the sidewalk. It was a chilly gray dawn and the early morning lull had settled over the city like a dense fog. One lesson my eleven years on the force had taught me was that I didn’t want to be caught on this street before daylight, so I moved fast. I made my way to the bus stop and waited. Thomas O’Brien always takes the bus. This, among others, was one of his repetitive habits and mannerisms that I imitated for the time I had been undercover. Though he wasn’t a real person, before my mission I had made sure to create a whole set of practices that I would follow while in character. I found it helped me differentiate from when I was Thomas O’Brien and when I was just me. As the sun crawled up the horizon, the city grew brighter, but stayed as depressing as before. A few automobiles puttered through the previously empty streets. Soon enough, the old bus lurched into the stop. I opened my worn wallet, which was tearing at the seams, and shook out just enough cents for the fare.

After a bumpy fifteen minutes, I stepped onto the uneven pavement. The air was thick with exhaust from the many cars that had appeared during my ride—normal people off to their normal jobs for a completely normal day. I, however, had a mission.

I lifted the brim of my hat and looked up at the decrepit diner. I thought it should be condemned. One window was cracked and the neon sign barely pulsed with life. In fact, it almost matched my previous apartment in terms of foulness.

The bell jingled as I stepped inside. A grimy man working the register grunted in Emily Kushnick my general direction and then went back to 8

his beer with a scowl. I looked around the empty room and spotted a lone figure slouched in a booth in the back.

There he was—my target, although, for now, I had to pretend he was my friend. I counted each footstep on the dull linoleum floor as I slowly made my way to the back of the restaurant, careful not to make an impression on anyone else in the room. These next steps of the assignment were crucial and my anonymity was key. I sat down in the cracked red booth opposite from him and cleared my throat. The man barely glanced up from the newspaper he was reading. I noticed my hands were shaking and lit a cigarette from my pocket. After taking a long drag I took his silence as an opportunity to size him up. He was stocky, with a dark black beard and mustache. He had a scar on his right cheek that looked like it had a rough backstory. All around, I was pretty intimidated. I prayed that everything would run smoothly and I wouldn’t find myself on his bad side. I fingered the device in my pocket, careful not to press the button too early. Finally, he looked up.

“Are you Thomas?” he muttered under his breath. I nodded. Good. He knew me only by my undercover identity. Now it was time to initiate our code to confirm his identity.

“So,” I asked tentatively, “What would you recommend on the menu?” At this, a slight smile graced his lips. I hoped it was because he knew that I had said the first line. If he answered correctly, I would know he was the right criminal and I was one step closer to finishing the operation. I wiped my sweaty palms on the sides of my pants and tightened my grip around the gadget in my pocket.

He opened his mouth again and spoke softly in a gravelly voice: “Order the eggs.” I caught my breath as my heart raced like a hummingbird. This was the line that we had coordinated before. I nodded. He nodded. Now came the second step in our little meeting: He was supposed to leave, and I was to follow him ten minutes later to the backlot of the diner. Little did he know his nefarious plans would soon be shattered. As the plan dictated, he now stood up from the booth and sauntered out the door, not bothering to pay. In an effort to act normal, I picked up a menu, but upon noticing the abnormally greasy texture, I returned it to its spot on the table. I took a deep breath and pulled out the minuscule instrument from my now sweat-soiled pants. My heartbeat raced. This was the moment I had been working towards for the past seven months. All of my months of disguises and lies were about to pay off, because I was about to take down one of the most powerful crime rings in downtown Los Angeles.

With enormous relish and satisfaction, I pressed the small black pin and breathed a shaky breath of relief.

Within minutes, I could hear the angry scream of the police cars ripping through the air. The sleepy stillness of the city was shattered as four cruisers raced into the parking lot. They skidded to a stop and kicked up dust as they surrounded the man from the diner. I could sense the panic ripple through his bones from the window. Fearing defeat, he desperately tried to jump over the dumpster in the back and run away on foot, but the officers were too quick. He fell to the ground with an audible thud and was escorted, handcuffed, to one of the cars. Calmly, I strolled out to the parking lot to finally reveal myself to the criminal. There was no need to keep my secret any longer, now that the operation had been a success. Taking off my hat, I explained to him how, for the past seven months, I had been undercover as a man named Thomas O’Brien. My goal was to form connections with many of the city’s most notorious criminal organizations until I could arrange a meeting to capture the worst of them all: the man standing right in front of me. To do this, I lived in a rundown apartment and cut off all communication with people from my former life. After explaining, the other uniforms drove away and disappeared into the now bustling streets, leaving me alone.

With the initial elation fading fast, I sat down on the curb and drew another cigarette from my pocket. In the time since my fellow cops left, I had begun to feel more and more confused and angry. I had imagined this day being a time of celebration and recognition, but all my hard work had earned me was a few “Good jobs” and a singular “Well done.” I then turned my attention to the future. I considered returning home and retiring from the force, but something didn’t feel right. I realized that in my seven months of impersonating him, I had become Thomas O’Brien. I didn’t even feel like myself anymore, whoever that was. All that lay ahead was frustratingly uncertain. As I stared into the cold sun slipping away behind the mountain, I knew: this was the perfect ending to the perfect dreary day.

—Ezra Aslan

9

The Song of Angels There’s no better sensation than ripping open a freshly baked bagel. The steam that billows out is the song of angels. I consider myself a bagel aficionado (although some might say snob). The quest for the perfect bagel has led me from the crisp molasses-soaked bagels of Montreal to the pillowy savoriness of New York’s, where I once trekked the entire length of Manhattan with a dozen bagels in my backpack (a modern version of my ancestors’ 40-year journey through the desert). A good bagel can be found in the most unlikely places: an unassuming storefront across from my elementary school, a parking lot under the Mario Cuomo Bridge, a lively limestone street in Jerusalem, or a back road nestled in rural Vermont. Each bite of a bagel contains the fulfillment of adventures, both familiar and unexpected.

In addition to providing new experiences, bagels also remind me of the comforts of family and my Jewish identity. A staple at any Jewish gathering, the vibrant spread of bagels and lox cultivates a connection with relatives and old friends. There is no life-cycle event without bagels—they mark the completion of brises, baby namings, and bar mitzvahs, where I celebrate important events with my loved ones and anticipate the next milestones.

I once tried baking my own bagels during the pandemic. Although they were delicious, they couldn’t compare to the pure joy I get from sharing a bagel on the road with my family.

—Eve Kobell

Ariella Eisenstadt

10

Frosted Secrets As the sun set on Friday night, campers flooded the cafeteria with their rumbling stomachs, eager for the mouth-watering chicken and the night to come. The tables started to fill with steamy matzah ball soup, exquisite potatoes, and our counselors’ notorious hummus creations. Everyone had their own Shabbat routine; Elana would eat three bowls of soup in the first half of dinner until she reached a standstill and had to stop. Then Sophia would seize a fourth of the challah from our table and spend the rest of the meal scavenging for extra pieces. Once, she licked the floor in exchange for half a challah; trust me, we praised her for her sacrifice. We almost stood up and started the hora in the middle of the room out of joy and pride at her accomplishment. Shabbat made the room glow with constant chatter and bountiful laughs. The place made us feel lighter, like we could do anything, but that confidence struck especially hard with the four of us.

Maya, Solly, Yoyo, and I had been tasked with a tradition that made our minds scramble and feet drum the floor. For decades, on Friday night, four campers had to steal a cake from the cafeteria and finish the whole thing without being caught. One cake has been taken every Friday night since the camp’s founding, except for the 1997 incident, which was the same year as the tragic fire. Now, I don’t really believe in that stupid superstition bull, but we had a mission and we weren’t going to become as infamous as 1997’s group.

This night felt different. It was our second week completing our task; we’d barely survived the previous one.

Through whispered conversations and pushy eye contact, Yoyo was chosen to face our first obstacle, the cake tray’s guardian, Anne Lapin. She had the eyes of a hawk, ears that could detect the smallest creak, and wild curly black hair (that I swear had strangled someone before). She was envied and revered, and that’s how she liked it, so our task was to subdue the beast. As Yoyo approached the cart, the cafeteria’s noise started to dim, and his footsteps became heavy. Maya and I crept forward, trying to get a better view, ready to run in an instant. Suddenly, Anne’s neck snapped as she trained her eyes on him. We were caught, but giving up was not an option, so Yoyo kept moving forward, ready to face her wrath. I glanced over, frozen like an ice cube waiting to melt, but Maya didn’t hesitate.

Before I could blink, she was sprinting to the cart, grabbing the cake, and making her escape.

My legs moved before my brain could. I was flinging the doors open as a gust of wind guided us to the tennis courts. Maya and I turned the corner to see Solly and Yoyo running with us, but they weren’t alone. Alana, the head of the upper camp, was on their trail getting ready to pounce. We all sped up, aiming for the hills, where we lay sprawled on the ground, trying to catch our breath without ruining our borrowed dresses. Suddenly, Alana’s voice rang out, “I can see you.” We were compromised.

Like inchworms, we peeled ourselves off the ground, shrugged our shoulders, and slowly walked toward the cafeteria. Despair started to creep in, but when I looked at Maya, I saw a spark in her eyes, and she started to crawl toward a bush. Her arms cradled the cake like a baby she was determined to protect. In seconds, it was done, and the cake slipped into the bush undetected. We looked at each other and knew we would finish our job later.

Five tense minutes passed in the cafeteria. While the community vibrantly sang the prayer over the food, I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering as I moved through the pre-rehearsed hand motions. As cheers of “ay yi ni nye ni” started to break out, I knew I had to leave. I slowly clapped my way toward the door, but only Solly followed; Yoyo had forgotten about the task, and Maya was too caught up in the Shabbat spirit to leave. The lack of numbers was not going to stop us, so we walked, unafraid, toward the bush with only the moon’s light to guide us.

I spotted the bush and fished around in it for a minute before finding the cake. Before we could start eating, Solly made a small gagging sound as he noticed a worm nibble on our frosted secret as if it were his wedding cake and he was deciding between Hazelnut Praline and Raspberry Chambord. Sadly for the worm, his tasting session was interrupted when Solly fearlessly flung him into the woods.

With one final look, we began to eat. Grabbing handfuls at a time, we shoved the cake into our mouths. With each bite, the cake became drier, eventually tasting like the Sahara Desert, and the lingering taste of dirt was not helping its cause. Solly was a beast, downing three pieces at a time, so when the last bite came around, I stepped up for the greater good and ate it. I’m still not sure if we sighed in relief or pain, but we walked away holding our stomachs and heads held high, unprepared for the jumping the next hour would hold.

—Ariella Eisenstadt 11

The Secretary’s Bad Eye The secretary marched through the snowy gale without even a goosebump appearing on her flaky skin. Little flecks of winter flew through the air, swooping like a great white dragon over the streets and ready to descend on its next victim. Small holes were carved into the sidewalk’s steadily darkening coating, carved and blackened by the dreary pattern of dirty snow boots. The wind swooped the flecks of white pouring from the sky into the secretary’s hair and onto her plain black, short-sleeved dress as she dodged between shivering, suited businessmen and into the manufactured glow of her office.

She darted between pillars and overdressed women. The secretary bowed her head, melting hair dripping, and feet quick. She hit the button for the elevator, its incandescent bulb lighting up feebly.

“Good morning, Ms. Murray,” said a thickly-coated lawyer once she had entered.

They were in one of those elevators with a window so that you could survey the entire city. The secretary looked out at the city through her cat’s-eye glasses at the rising scenery. She could see the marble museum, the white-engulfed park, the sleepy graveyard, and the quiet residential district. Her small, ballet-like shoes shuffled, looking at a traffic jam down below, wondering if the traffic lights were malfunctioning or if there had been an accident.

“Ms. Murray?”

“Oh. Oh yes,” the secretary started, “the clouds really are quite nice today. I am glad someone else noticed.” And she flounced out of the elevator.

The secretary worked on the twenty-seventh floor of Reeds Tower at Fox and Weaver, a notoriously big law firm working in notoriously dull pursuits. Their job of “helping high-net-worth individuals and families to protect and preserve their wealth and assets.” The work involved a stringent series of meticulously organized tax codes, legal loopholes, meetings, and revising. All of which suited her fine. She plopped herself down in front of her typewriter with a big red pen and an already burgeoning pile of things to revise, send, and organize.

The papers swished, and her pen scribbled. She called a Mr. Dean about his next appointment with her red rotary phone. She organized her way through the piles, crossing out canceled meetings and poorly written emails – faxed, of course. Shivering, heavily dressed women trickled their way into the office, their heads bowed in concentration, scribbling and chatting with each other.

The words started to appear double. They swarmed over the page, words crisscrossing over themselves like an inky spider’s web.

The secretary squinted. Nothing.

With a muttered string of curse words, the secretary inched her slight body through the maze of overly polished chairs and desks, trying not to knock over a colleague’s scalding cup of coffee. Her head was bowed determinedly at the floor, and her hair completely hid her face from view. The secretary’s feet clunked to the gender-neutral bathrooms (Fox and Weaver’s DEI office insisted that every floor have one), went inside, and locked the door with a hurried click.

“Crap.”

The secretary looked up with her eye into the overly-clean mirror to see the other eye hanging out of its socket.

It flopped, rolling on her cheek, a red string holding it, almost cartoonishly, to the rest of her face. The eye was almost beautiful in its perfection: perfectly round, a light brown iris right in the middle. It was bloody, awful, and wrong; you had to appreciate its morbid beauty.

It had been two weeks, two since this had last happened. Practically a record. The secretary had hoped that she had finally defeated it. Apparently not.

She washed her hands thoroughly, looking for the crevices where a crawling bacteria might have escaped her, pummelling the bar of soap into her hands. Then she closed her good eye. Thusquishhhuh. The secretary massaged her eye back into its socket. She stuck her finger in the socket, moving it around slowly until her irises were even, and her vision no longer doubled. She closed her eyes, rolling her eyes around. Sometimes, the dislodged one got stuck under an eyelid. All clear. Blinking, she wiped off the goop from her cheek and washed her hands again.

She took out a small black bottle from her pocket. Two yellow capsules fell into her outstretched hand. She shoved the pills into her mouth, dry swallowed them with a shudder, and walked out of the bathroom.

12

“Oh, come on, Michael, you can’t drop her.”

A voice reverberated from the end of the windowless hallway. It was the low, gravelly voice of one of the secretary’s lawyers, Mr. Gonzalez.

“She refuses even to learn how to use a computer. My goodness, even my seven-yearold knows how to use a computer. We have to convert everything for her,” said the higher, clipped sound of another superior, Mrs. Marcus.

“She has been here longer than any of us.

Elderly people have trouble with the new tech.

Should they fire us when we have trouble with holograms and coding or whatever?” Mr. Gonzalez let out a short, stifled bark of laughter at his own wit.

The secretary gasped. Her bad eye twitched. She needed this job. It sustained her, she breathed for it, moved for it.

“So, should we keep maintaining the fax machine? The lady does not even know how to use a printer, for Pete’s sake.”

Lila Faden “And while she works like it’s 1985, she accepts a wage like it’s 1985. I doubt you would find a replacement for her that would work for $30,000 annually.”

Mrs. Marcus was silent. The secretary could almost see the lawyer’s lips pursing.

It was all too much. The secretary leaped up. Tears streaming from her eyes, she sprinted from the hallway. She jammed the button for the elevator, pacing in its interminable journey down to her floor. She threw herself into the elevator and then into the street.

The snow was up to her shins now. She waded through it like water, fury burning in her eyes like the tears freezing on her warm cheeks. Her short legs pranced through the slush, past staring, bundled-up people and heinously loud snow plows. Her adrenaline-filled legs didn’t stop for blocks, until her sodden ballet-like slippers dripped, and her dreary dress was crumpled with the sprayed dirt of cars and snowmelt at its fringes.

She was at a graveyard, small and dark, shrouded by snow-caked leafless trees. It might have been nice, if it were a different season; now, most of the graves were but small stone-like tripping hazards under the white. She moved like a bunny back to its burrow, skipping along with unusually large bounds. She settled down in front of a grave. This one, unlike the others, was clear of snow. Its green grass grew lively toward the grey sky, neatly mowed as though someone had tended to it that very day.

Catherine Murray Born June 7th, 1911 Died September 15th, 1987 “I have merely fallen through the veil.”

The secretary – Ms. Murray – sat in front of the inscribed grave. Her blotchy face smiled. She gave a little blink and a small sob. Her eye twitched. The grass sunk around her, entwining her like tiny ropes and pushing her into the frosty earth. And she sunk back into her grave, her home.

—Maya Serotta 13

Skunk Friends In the forest, skunks always felt like they had to hide. Everybody would make fun of them for their stinkiness, even if they didn’t spray. So one day, I, the peaceful deer that I am, decided to try and show them support. I walked over to their corner of the forest and knocked on their door. The sliding peephole at the top opened, and someone answered: “Enemies of the skunks should leave or be sprayed.”

“Whoa, hey buddy. I’m just here to bridge the gap between your people and the rest of the forest. Don’t you feel tired, forced to live in hiding while everyone else ridicules you, just for the species you were born as, something you can’t control?”

The skunk at the door began to answer me, but I couldn’t hear what he said over the cheering of everyone behind him. Once the celebration died down, he announced, “I was going to protest, but skunks are democratic creatures, so I suppose we’re in.”

Once the skunks were on board, I needed to rally the entire forest for this important cause. I told my mother, the leader of the deer, that I needed her help more than anything. She and all the other animal leaders needed to give their approval, then we could plan a gathering to welcome the skunks as equals in society. I began putting up signs inviting people to a pro-skunk march. My friends looked at me like I was crazy. They’d say, “Who wants to live among skunks? They’re disgusting!” The usual jests were followed by laughter that made my blood boil.

Instead of screaming their ears off, I just said, “You’ll see how many folks are at the march, then you might not find it so funny.”

My posters and campaigning worked out so well that two days later, even some animals who had opposed me showed up at the march. Plus, we had snacks, so that didn’t hurt. Deer, squirrels, robins, foxes, geese, snakes, and many other creatures showed up, set aside their differences, and marched together to support the skunks. Some brought signs to wear, and I got to lead everyone in chants I’m very proud to have made. There was “Use your brain to think, stop reducing them to stink!” “Nobody ignore us, let skunks roam the forest!” and the classic “What do we want?” “Skunk friends!” “When do we want them?” “Now!” Our march ended at the skunks’ house, where they were waiting excitedly to meet everyone. I looked out at all the different animals hugging and talking to each other, and it truly warmed my heart. I hoped the skunk I met at the door from before ended up changing his mind and decided to take part in such a beautiful moment. As if he read my mind, the same voice spoke to me again through the same door.

“That’s pretty amazing. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Bruce. You?” “Melanie.” I pushed around some dirt with my hooves, wondering how I could get him to leave the house.

“Why aren’t you out here celebrating?”

“Well, kid, to me it just seems like a passing trend. Today they might like me, but tomorrow they’ll be back to the way they were. Trust me, I’ve been alive for two and a half years; I have the wisdom of a sage.” I found this funny, being only a few months younger than him.

“I think I know what you mean, Bruce. It took so much effort to get everyone here, and it’s hard to believe this is real. But look out there. Those are genuinely happy animals. We can’t be worrying about the future when the present looks better than ever. We have to cherish the good times, even if we think they’re doomed to regress.”

Bruce ended up leaving the skunk house after that, but he was partially right. We had a few more marches, but we never got enough different species’ leaders’ support to make the skunks seen as equals in the forest. Once or twice a week, though, I do make a point to meet with the skunks and catch up, and I encourage my friends to come with me or do the same on their own time. I came to Bruce’s third birthday party and asked him what he thought of how everything turned out.

“Well,” he said with a smile, “You have certainly made progress, and that’s better than nothing.”

—Cici Miller

14

The Dog For Me: An Adoption to Remember Pottery shards and sea glass adorned the local dog park. The glass scraps were presumably the result of teenagers, hiding the fruits of their intoxicated escapades from any leery parents. The pottery was a bit more suspect —somewhere upstream there surely wasn’t some newly married couple, gleefully shattering their good china, simply to spite their conventional wedding registry. For years now, I had paced the riverbed, collected a trove of these forgotten fragments, and yet somehow, in the very places that I’ve scanned a hundred times before, there were always new pieces to be found.

Around my fifth birthday, Carter joined our family. Prepared to interview potential dogs, my family arrived at the single-story cement building that is the North Philadelphia animal shelter. A clearly overworked caregiver ushered us into a grim, fenced in, 20x10 foot, patch of dirt. Carter bounded out with his massive tongue almost trailing behind him in the wind. My sister frolicked with him in that sad backyard, yet I remained on a splitting wood bench, barely moving, except to administer superficial pets. What I most distinctly recall was my woeful verdict: “This is not the dog for me.”

Carter shed constantly, drooled in the car, jumped on guests, and, thanks to his separation anxiety, kept us from leaving the house for more than a few days. His masterful doggie paddle, however, is what led us to the dog park.

Now, thanks to a woman with too much time, and even more money, the dog park has been refined into the debonair park that its zip-code warranted, but at the time, it was a swamp. For any dog owner who ever had to clean their dog, it was a travesty, an eyesore, a bog from hell. I discovered the broken shards of pottery and sea glass nestled between rocks that lined the creek bank and began stuffing my pockets until they drooped below the cuff of my shorts. During those scavenging escapades, Carter would flounder in the water adjacent to me, dutifully retrieving tennis balls, living the Labrador dream. My sagging pockets were heavy with the dirt that had clung to the pottery shards, and his fur was caked in mud—all evidence of a good romp. My mother would sternly escort us to the shower, where Carter would be hosed down, which he hated, and dried off, which he loved. As we dried him off I would hold up a towel to resemble a conquistador, and like a proper bull, he would repeatedly charge into it.

After several years of this tradition, he seemed to enjoy being washed just with the prospect of being toweled down.

While his size and teeth gave the impression of a competent guard dog, Carter would hide under my parents’ bed during thunderstorms, get nervous skin rashes if ever left alone too long, and walk into the occasional wall.

But from stature alone he was definitely what my grandfather would refer to as a “real dog.”

In middle school, I spent many nights a week in my room crying without really understanding why. When he heard me cry, Carter would start whimpering himself, and pawing at my bedroom door until it opened enough for him to stick his head through and check on me. Carter, whether because he was nonjudgmental, or simply incapable of judgment, would let me bury my face in the scruff of his neck and hug him until I felt better.

In 8th grade Carter stopped eating. He stopped running. His days were spent in the frozen-over pachysandra, as if to preserve his body one day at a time. We would force-feed him medicine, futilely willing him to health. It became apparent that attempting to keep him alive was selfish, and lymphoma got the better of him. I went to school the day he was put down, but I’m told he went peacefully with that signature, remarkably human smile on his retriever face.

When a piece of sea glass is too sharp, too raw, you have to throw it back in the water so, over time, the rocks at the bottom of the stream can smooth it out. These days, when I toss a shard back into the water and hear its unmistakable plop, I worry my crazy canine will go after it. All I know is that he was, and still is, “the dog for me.”

Ayelet Seltzer —Asher Decherney 15

Fallen Leaf How could I go unnoticed?

I fell with such grace Bore no mark with my descent Another fallen leaf taking its place The autumn curls my spine My skin turning all different hues The way we sway in the gentle wind To be stepped on by human shoes We deserve a voice A mark in your mind We’re just swept to the side Silently left behind My mother cries for me The rain starts to fall Her bark is thinning In the dark, creatures begin to crawl When the next season comes People forget how they treated me All alone, in the unwelcoming soil With no regard to my home, the tree I want to see the winter I want to see the snow Cause I’m a leaf with purpose I have the right to know Next time you see a leaf fall Remember my petition We aren’t mere garbage But leaves wanting recognition

16

Eli Koch Mishael —Yoni Blier

The Vineyard and the Hat The car is packed with stuff, like surfboards, beach chairs, snacks, and paper towels. It’s like my parents barely left enough room for my brother and me, who are also tightly crammed into the car. Although I’m dreading the seven-hour car ride, I am excitedly thinking about the dark blue water, the sand full of broken seashells scratching the bottom of my feet, the seagulls searching for food to snag, and the rocky beaches. We are on our way to the highlight of my summer—a week in Martha’s Vineyard with my extended family.

After what seems like a never-ending drive, even with stops at Dunkin Donuts for our favorite donuts, we arrive at the Woods Hole ferry, which is how we get from regular Massachusetts out to the island. To me, the ferry is the coolest thing ever. We literally drive onto the boat and park our car at the bottom of the ferry. Then we get out of the car and climb the steep metal stairs to the deck so we can feel the warm sun as the ferry crosses the water on its way to the Vineyard. My parents always suggest that we go to the top of the boat, and this year, while I’m looking over the railing, we see a giant whale. I’m so amazed by the whale sighting that I don’t notice the gust of wind, and in an instant my favorite bright red Phillies hat flies right off of my head. I will never see it again.

I usually spend the ferry ride trying to talk to the seagulls, who fly in perfectly synchronized groups right next to the ferry, but this year, I’m distracted by my missing hat, which by now is probably at the bottom of the ocean.

My mom, dad, Sammy, and I carefully make our way back down the steps, cram back into the car, and drive onto the island. As soon as our tires hit Edgartown Road, I forget about my hat and get super excited. We’re on our way to the “Peg House,” the coolest house on the Vineyard because it’s made entirely from wooden pegs—no nails or screws. My grandparents rent it for the family every summer, and every summer my granddad and I walk around the house, talking about how creative and innovative the builders of the “Peg House” were.

As soon as I get inside of the house, the warmth hits me. The house has no air conditioning, which makes it sometimes feel warmer than the outside temperature. Every summer, Granddad declares, “Who needs air conditioning when you have the island breeze?” but he has a ceiling fan in his bedroom, and the rest of us sleep in pools of sweat. All of the cousins, who have flown, driven, and ferried in from Boston, San Diego, Los Angeles, Princeton, and Philadelphia, are so happy to be together that the sweat doesn’t matter.

After greetings and hugs from Granddad and Nana, I see the rest of my family sitting on the big yellow living room couch already working on our favorite Vineyard group activity: the 1000-piece puzzle. Every year we do a new one, and this year, the puzzle theme is Hershey’s. I can’t wait to join them. I run up the creaky wooden stairs, put my stuff in my room, and head back to the barely-started puzzle. But before I make it to the couch, my Uncle Bucky asks me if I want to go to the dock, and I can’t resist. I grab a net from the rickety back porch and race my Uncle Bucky across the long grass to see the minnows. Immediately, I run to the edge of the dock and stick the net into the murky water, hoping to see minnows flopping up and down. I do this again and again for what feels like hours, until I smell the charcoal, and I know what’s coming. One of the best island rituals is dinner prep, where everyone has a job so we can all eat delicious fresh food together.

Nana shouts from the kitchen that if my brother, my cousin, and I pick enough ripe raspberries before dinner, she’ll bake a pie that we can eat later tonight. My nana makes the world’s best pies. We grab bags for the raspberries, run around the side of the house, and sprint down the dusty dirt road to the woods. Suddenly, all of the smells of the Vineyard hit me at once: the minnows, the charcoal grill, the salt water, and the fresh raspberries. As we make our way through the woods, searching for bushes with the brightest and ripest raspberries, we barely feel the tiny scratches from the many sharp branches that now cover our legs. By the time we return to the house, we are dirty, scratched up from the woods, sweaty, smelly, and happy as can be. We proudly hand Nana the bags of raspberries, and then we turn to join our other cousins at the Hershey’s puzzle. Before I can get there, Granddad tells me he wants to show me something. I approach and, with a smile, he puts a purple, kid-size Martha’s Vineyard Sharks baseball hat on my head.

—Josh Bartle

17

A Bus & A Bouquet The bus driver, a graying old man whose music was audible past his dangling earbuds, was focused intently on the road in front of him. He didn’t look back, only muttering a quick shalom when someone new stepped on. I sat on an aisle seat, my backpack on the floor beside me and my suitcase precariously held by the soles of my converse.

I peered out the window, every few seconds glancing down at my phone which was open to Moovit—the Israeli public transportation tracking app. As the icon neared the train entrance where I was meant to transfer, I stood, searching for the string to pull to signal that my stop was approaching. Seeing only the white walls of the bus, I gathered my belongings and stepped towards the back double doors. I assumed that the driver could see me in the reflection and would open the doors for me, as is how I exit SEPTA back in Philadelphia. The bus didn’t stop.

The other commuters seemed to communicate telepathically with the driver, as they approached magically opening doors and stepped off at their respective stops. Too afraid to speak up, I felt glued to the floor of the vehicle, only able to watch as familiar neighborhoods turned unfamiliar and the bus emptied.

I swayed as the bus turned into a residential area, lurching forward when the driver slammed the brakes.

He finally turned back, cigarette still leeching and motioned towards the empty sidewalk.

“The trip is over. You need to get off.”

Embarrassed, I nodded and hurried to the front doors, mumbling a quick todah as they opened and I stepped out into unknown territory. Turning around, there was no one to be found. I started walking, dragging my suitcase behind me, searching for nonexistent signage or other pedestrians.

I patted my sweatshirt, searching for my phone which had since slipped into one of my many pockets. My backpack shifted to my left shoulder as I began to dial my madricha’s number; as the phone rang, the slap of the suitcase on the pavement broke the silence. My steps adjusted to the rhythm of the wheels. Thump. Thump.

“Hello?”

“Hi Agam. I don’t know where I am and my phone’s about to die. I got off at the wrong stop and—“My words flowed out rapidly, jumbling and swirling in the air.

“Calm down. It’s okay. Open Moovit. Type in your new location.” It was ironic that our “airhead” counselor was calming me down. “There’s going to be another bus somewhere around here.” I stopped, settling on the chipped curb.

Crap. The closest bus is fifty meters away and in three minutes.

“Agam, I have to go. I have to run to the next stop.” As I spoke I stood, adjusting my backpack and tugging the suitcase. My shoelace remained untied. I needed to get to my cousin’s house for the holidays, but at this rate I wouldn’t arrive until after sunset and the chag began.

I picked up the pace; I don’t even want to know what I looked like sprinting down the street, shoelace trailing behind me. As I ran, I took notice of a small white van trailing me. Oh no. Nothing good ever came from a white van trailing a running sixteen year old.

The bus stop came into view. Emboldened by a final burst of energy, I made the last push. At last! It was here … and so was the van.

The van huffed, pulling next to me. The window rolled down with a sharp squeak, and an older woman with silver curls and sunglasses perched on her head leaned out. Her voice, raspy but warm, called out in Hebrew.

“Do you need help motek? You look like you’re chasing your shadow.”

I froze, unsure whether to respond. Her smile was disarming, though, and in her hand she held a small pastry wrapped in wax paper, as if this was her standard way of approaching teenagers.

“I … just missed my bus.” My Hebrew was broken, as I searched for the words in my scattered brain.

She nodded knowingly. “Ah, ha’col beseder, another one will come. Where are you going?”

I hesitated, then responded, “Nofit. In the north. My cousin’s house. For Rosh Hashanah.”

Her eyes softened, and she glanced towards the back of the van. “Come, I’m heading towards Haifa. I’ll drop you off and you can catch a bus from there.”

I looked at her again, really looking. She seemed innocent enough, but I knew not to get into a car with a stranger. My mom would kill me.

18

“Todah, but I’m okay.” I stepped back towards the bus stop. She nodded but didn’t drive off, idling as I repulled up Moovit. The app’s icon taunted me; the bus I had aimed to catch had already left, leaving only another one coming in forty five minutes. I let out a frustrated sigh.

“Are you sure motek?” She asked again. “The buses take forever. And you have so much luggage!”

My phone buzzed—Agam. I immediately answered.

“Where are you now?” She questioned.

I explained the situation quickly, turning away from the older woman and lowering my voice. Agam laughed, the sound light but reassuring.

“Rak b’Yisrael, ken? Look, sometimes people are only trying to help. Trust your gut, but if she’s offering a ride to Haifa and seems harmless, maybe take it. Might be easier than finding another bus. Worst case, call me, and I’ll come rescue you.”

Hanging up, I took a deep breath and turned towards the woman. Her eyes hadn’t left me, but there was no impatience in her eyes.

“Beseder.” I said cautiously. “If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”

Her face lit up. “Trouble? Sweetheart, nothing is trouble about a mitzvah.”

She popped open the van door and got out, revealing rows of plastic-wrapped flower bouquets. She sequestered a small space for my suitcase. “I deliver flowers for the holiday,” she explained. “I’m headed to Haifa now, it’s meant to be.”

As I climbed in, the weight of my bags lifted as well as the tension in my chest. We drove through winding streets and open fields, chatting about her family, my trip, and how crazy it is to navigate the Israeli public transportation system. When we reached Haifa, she handed me one of the bouquets.

“For the chag,” she winked. “And remember, sometimes detours are where the magic happens.”

—Margot Englander

Eliora Lesack 19

Truths I looked up from my book just in time to watch the last hint of sunlight vanish behind the dark and looming Rocky Mountains. With a tired sigh, I gazed out the giant glass window, tracking an airplane taking off into the cool Denver night. Despite the warm August day, I was hit with a sudden draft and shivered, wishing I had packed something warmer in my carry-on. I focused my drooping eyes on the television nearby, letting my head fall back, when I saw that there was still another half hour before boarding began; the thought of reading another page almost sent me to sleep. I could hardly keep my eyes open. I scanned the room in a bored daze, and that’s when she caught my eye: the most stunning woman I had ever seen. She stood behind the desk next to the gate, staring intently at her computer screen. It took a minute to convince myself, but I finally stood and began nervously walking in her direction. As I approached, she smiled up politely at me. I looked down at her name tag but it was covered by locks of hair. She had the most exquisite hair. Light brown at first glance, but the way the light reflected off of it made it glow like gold. From there on, emotions themselves can hardly describe what transpired. I was nervous, but our conversation flowed smoothly like honey as I slowly fell in love.

Our interests aligned perfectly. It turns out she was from Southern California, just like I was. She told me about an ex-boyfriend who had dragged her to Denver, but for some reason, she found it so hard to leave. She said she liked the big sky and the cool, clean air. I agreed and told her about my love for the scent of pine drifting on the morning breeze from the mountains. She said she wanted to get away, away from the constraints of society and all of its pressures. The next thing I knew, we were out of the airport, driving on the highway, windows open, hearts fluttering, my hair flying back as the speedometer’s needle ticked to the right. I didn’t know where we were going, but I was in love; she felt perfect. She probably grew up in a family just as I did. Siblings, parents, maybe even a dog. Like myself, she wanted to travel the world and see everything. My flight was headed to New York City, the next stop in my boring life for a job set to begin the next Monday. Finance. Suits, spreadsheets, and meetings that stretched to eternity. I was tired already, and it hadn’t even begun. Maybe we would turn back, and I would submit myself to the constraints of society. Maybe the girl and I would keep driving into the calm night, searching for paradise. She wanted to get away too. I knew from the second I saw her dull stare as she stood at her desk next to the gate. We kept driving further and further into the night, away from the blinding city lights. The more time we spent together, the more pressure lifted off my shoulders. I was sure she felt the same way, too. My heart swelled up in my chest. The warm night wrapped around us like a cloak, the car flying down the highway, each mile pulling us into the darkness toward endless freedom. She spoke indecipherably, but in a tone I had never heard before. A tone full of annoyance. The words were blurry, but began coming together.

“Sir,” she kept repeating. I blinked. The bright airport lights irritated my eyes.

“Sir, I said, can I help you?”

I gasped for air, but there was none in me. She put her hands on the desk and bent closer. The diamond on her left ring finger caught the fluorescent light from above. I winced and squinted my eyes. It was at least two carats. I felt limp.

“Sir?” Her voice pierced through the haze. I stepped back and nearly tripped over the burly man standing behind me. He peered down on me with a look of irritation.

“Sir, are you okay?” the gate agent asked. All I could do was vigorously nod my head. I walked awkwardly back to my seat, nearly knocking over an elderly woman’s wheelchair. I plunked myself back in my seat and put my head in my hands.

—B.B. Friedman

20

Anna Salpeter 21

Dear Future Husband... I Found You, I Found ME November 1, 2003 Dear Future Husband, I am starting a journal.

I am currently a 30-year-old living in New York, the “city of singles,” and have yet to find myself a husband.

One day in the near future, I believe I will find you, the perfect man. My friend Lorraine says that I am too picky, but I do not classify myself as a critical person—I just haven’t come across my 6’5’’, slick brown-haired Italian pasta maker yet.

I quit my job. I used to be a sex-ed teacher at an all-boys private school, but I never thought that was my passion, and I have yet to find my new destiny. I do love cooking—I make a mean Bolognese. I have always dreamed of being famous, maybe like the female Guy Fieri or something. That was a quick side note.

Anyhoo… I’m on a plane. I’m going to Tuscany. I’M NOT CRAZY. I may have used the majority of my bank account to pay for this business-class flight, but it’s oh-so worth it.

Every five minutes, the stewardess comes in with another type of fancy cheese and Prosecco. I am basically starring in my own Hallmark movie.

I am going to take this journal with me on my quest to find you as I travel through the Tuscan Vineyards, starting with a wine tour through Uva Casa. When I encounter a possible candidate I envision myself with, I will write about the encounter.

The last man I write about will, of course, be you—my future husband.

Hopefully, no obstacles will get in my way.

Till next time, Karen Smith November 2, 2003—Antonio Weinstein Dear Future Husband, I might have met you today. After arriving outrageously jet-lagged, feeling disgusting, and hair-looking-like-abird’s-nest delulu, you handsome, half-my-age fellow were so painfully nice to me and took my bags out of the cab.

I might have been half asleep or drunk on plane Prosecco, but if I remember correctly, you said, “Vuoi che ti mostri come arrivare alla tua stanza?” which after mastering level 500 in Duolingo, I believe means something flirtatious.

I know for sure that “tua stanza” means something about going to my room.

Till next time, Karen Dear Future Husband, I think there is a language barrier. Apparently, in your navy bell-boy uniform, you were just asking if you could drop my Juicy Couture bags in my room. I misinterpreted the situation.

I guess I was optimistic that I found you on my first try. Well, I’ll write more tomorrow on my trip through the fields of Uva Casa.

Till next time, Karen November 7, 2003—Romeo Capatelli (man 2) Dear Future Husband, I traveled three and a half hours for a little day trip to Rome. I think I saw you. I was standing in one of the beautifully broken arches of the Colosseum and straight across, I saw a man, maybe it was you. I’m going to call you my Romeo.

Out of nowhere, I saw a crack appear above you in the tuff and stone. The arch broke. You broke. Across the Colosseum, you died in front of me.

22

Till next time, Karen November 12, 2003—Giuseppe Giovanni Dear Future Husband, I was sitting in the hotel lobby drinking limoncello when you came up to me and asked me out to dinner. That night, we went to your favorite restaurant, Antica Locanda di Sesto.

You asked the waiter for a giant burrata ball and I ordered the Pappardelle Piazza. Did you know that Tuscany is famous for its pappardelle? That stupid piazza bowl came in scorching hot and my hand blistered numb the instant I touched it. I felt like I was just thrown into the fire.

I felt cursed…Giuseppe, you must not be the one.

Till next time, Karen November 12, 2003—Leonardo DiCapriolini Dear Future Husband, You, tall, with long strides, rushed to my table and saved me. As the manager of the restaurant, you took responsibility. Helping me out of my shock and out of my chair, you led me to the kitchen, past all of the chefs, to the pasta-making room, and cleaned my wound. I remember our conversation exactly.

“Americano?” he asked.

“Yes, I am from the States,” I replied.

“Do you know how to make my famous pappardelle?”

“Not specifically, but I have a passion for cooking.”

“Ah. I will make what happened to your hand up to you. I will teach you my secret recipe, but first, I want you to show me your skills. You’re in Italy for a reason, right?”

“I came for an absurd reason, thinking I would find my husband.”

You laughed under your breath and said, “Hmm. I think you are here for a different reason.”

Xoxo, Karen November 12, 2004—Leonardo DiCapriolini Dear Future Husband, You, Leonardo DiCapriolini, have become my partner, and we live a great life. I knew it was you because you put me first. You believed in me from the first moment you met me. You gave me an opportunity to succeed as the chef I always wanted to be—you made me Head Chef of the Pasta Room, where we first met a little over a year ago.

Men 1, 2, 3, and 4 led me to believe that my search was ill-fated. Every single time I had hope, a challenge failed me.

It was only when I met you that my world changed forever. I am no longer a high school sex education teacher; you led me to find new meaning in life. With your help, I found my way through Tuscany—despite the language barrier, getting eaten by a dog, watching the Colosseum crack in front of me, and getting burned by a piazza pasta bowl.

It is through you that I found a deeper meaning in life.

I found my purpose.

Till next time, Karen Smith Capocuoco Resso, Antica Locanda di Sest —Ariel Shavit 23

Loose Strands “Can you braid my hair?”

I took a deep breath, stifling my frustration at her reliance on me. It had been a long day, bricks of desperate sadness and exhaustion filling my stomach and chest and throat, threatening to spill out in words I wouldn’t be able to take back or tears I wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Give me a minute.”

“Okay.” Amelia stepped into the closet, adjusting her sweatshirt and examining herself in the mirror as I started refolding the clothes spilling out of my cubbies. How neat my cubbies were varied directly with how my day had gone, and that night nothing was in its place.

“UGH, I wanted to wear Target pants, but no one who’s here has clean ones they aren’t wearing, so I don’t know what to wear.” I gave up folding, blinking back tears. It was all just too much.

I knew how I wanted to feel—pretty and fun and the brighter version of myself that I am at camp—but I didn’t know how to get there that night, slumped on the dusty floor as I felt my day crashing down around me.

“Okay, why don’t you wear what I’m wearing?” Amelia was wearing shorts, tank top, zip-up sweatshirt—a standard camp outfit. I didn’t want to wear that. But it was easier than deciding for myself, so I nodded, feeling unexpected relief welling up.

“Can you pick for me?” It was just an outfit, but it felt bigger than that. I needed her to say yes because I couldn’t get through the night on my own.

“Yeah. How about these shorts?” Amelia’s response was second nature; I, too, had helped her countless times before.

“And your gray tank top, the one I wore last night.” I hadn’t had anything to worry about: vulnerability was scary, but our friendship was a two-way street.

“Can I wear one of your tank tops?”

“Yeah, come look in my bin.” Amelia held out a hand to help me up.

“Can you just bring one for me?” I didn’t have it in me to make the trek: across our shared porch, a minefield of Revlons, makeup bags, and day-old instant ramen, through the danger zone of clothes and wrappers that was her bunk, back across the porch, then finally returning to the relative safety of my bunk.

“I’ll bring you options.” Amelia left, and I stared at myself in the mirror, exactly where she’d left me. SAY IT OUT LOUD: I AM BEAUTIFUL. It was my favorite closet graffiti, Sharpied neatly next to the mirror, but I didn’t say it.

Amelia was back in a few minutes with an armful of tank tops and sweatshirts, and I settled on an outfit. We hugged in front of the mirror, laughing as we realized that I had picked the exact color inverse of her outfit.

Sami Neff —Odelia Krasner Friedman

24