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Calliope 2025

CALLIOPE 2025 North Cross School 4254 Colonial Ave. Roanoke, VA 24018 Contents FINE ART GRAPHIC DESIGN PHOTOGRAPHY POETRY FICTION INTERVIEW READING SURVEY DOODLES END PAGE (PHOTOGRAPHY and POETRY) Calliope is the literary and arts magazine of the Upper School.

It has been intermittently published since the 1960s.

Editors: Aadeetri Pandey ‘26 and Akali Koeda ‘28 Advisor: Robert Robillard Contributors: Pietra Adelino Fischer ‘26 Margaret Bass ‘28 (page 3) Mason Bibby ‘27 Lauren Boone ‘25 Savannah Brooks ‘26 (Cover) Tina Chikwata ‘26 Nola Daninger ‘27 Mia Esposito ‘28 Justus Horner ‘28 Jacob Johnson ‘25 Monica Koene ‘28 Lily Lenkowski‘28 Penelope Lampros ‘28

By Monica Koene I walk away, but don’t want to go, from this place I ended up calling home.

I don’t look back, I keep my pace.

But I will really miss this place.

Penelope Lampros ‘28 created this acrylic painting of dandelions. She made this painting her own by adding grass and making the dandelions look like they were blowing away.

Remi Lewis ‘27 Gracie Munro ‘27 Nguyen Nguyen ‘27 Jahanvi Patel ‘25 Shree Patel ‘28 Kaitlyn Perkins ‘28 Victoria Real ‘27 Grace Sheppard ‘25 Izzy Snyder ‘26 Ezra Vu ‘25 Indira Weed ‘25 Caroline Welfare ‘27 Charlie Zhao ‘26

POETRY

Memories of a River

By Caroline Welfare

Moments, Flashes Memories that I can no longer see The trees that have grown in my mind, with Rabbit holes that I either Fall Sink Jump Or Meander Into Like a river that doesn’t know where it’s going

Doesn’t care either Its content To wander and mimble and merge Until the water has Seamlessly bled into Everything Around It. Once in the burrows, Those Twisting Turning Tunnels Words and remedies Become something else, A great puzzle piece In an endless mosaic When?

That I Who Could But Never Are there none the same Comprehend.

Part of the river that Down in the Droplets cannot see Deepest Darkest, Reach, Some of the Feel, Experiences But are present nonetheless, Lay, left in the guesswork Part of the Wilderness Quilt of Contained in a jar, Did I? A novelty

River and Tree photos by Shree Patel

TREES I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

Joyce Kilmer

FINE ART

Disfigured Pietra Adelino Fischer

FINE ART

Garden

Pietra Adelino Fischer

‘Disfigured,’ a piece made by Fischer, hangs in the art show in the student center. During the art show, this colorful and expressive painting caught people’s attention very easily. “It’s not original,” she said. “It’s not my idea. I saw that painting a few years ago on the internet.”

Though the concept wasn’t originally hers, she decided to test her technique by doing it by memory. “I didn’t know how it was,” she said.

“I created the colors.” Over the course of three to four weeks, she brought it to life, combining surrealism, expressionism and abstract. “I was wanting to explore my technique with paint,” she said. “And this is how it turned out.”

- Monica Koene

Garden, pictured above, was created by Fischer using oil pastels to create this intricate design. Fischer said that she really enjoys Claude Monet’s paintings and that she was “inspired by his work” when she was creating this piece. As for the background details with strokes of blue and pink Fischer states that she chose these colors because “it matched the vibe of the flowers.” (We apologize to Pietra for the glare marks from taking the photo with the frame.) While she has only been a part of the art program here at NCS, she has made her mark through her many impressive pieces. Fischer also presented her replication of the famous Christ Redeemer statue at this year’s culture day.

FINE ART

Made It Through the Day

By Mason Bibby The sun goes down on another day, The blue sky chased away the cloudy gray, And you, my dear friend, at the very end, Made it through today.

It may not have been quite what you wished, It may not have been exactly as on your list, But you, my dear friend, at the very end, Made it through today.

Or it may have been the very best, You bought a car, won a game, passed a test, And you, my dear friend, at the very end, Made it through today.

I’ll sit here waiting for what tomorrow brings, I’ll ponder by my window as the robin sings, With you, my dear friend, and at the very end, We’ll say: “we made it through today.”

Whatever the day’s events have brought, Whether victory riddled or failure fraught, You, my dear friend, made it to the end, And made it through today.

Art bites back: Grace Sheppard ‘25 shows effect of time A striking and vivid piece of art depicting rotten teeth draws attention and questions.

Sheppard’s piece, abundant with pungent detail and attributes that might be even possibly disturbing to some. She, demands that you glance and investigate the true meaning behind the grotesque piece; something rarely attempted in student art.

The piece was made by senior Grace Sheppard in her Art Portfolio class. She said that the goal behind the making of this piece “helped to portray my sustained investigation of the effect of time on different subjects.” She created this piece using oil pastel and weeks of dedication crafting the vivid details to “perfection”- or rather her display of imperfection.

-- Fiona Parnell

FICTION

FINE ART

Pieces of us

By Monica Koene

T

he first thing she noticed was the smell of rain. It clung to the air, to the pavement outside, to the soft fabric of the hospital sheets. Everything felt new. Everything felt wrong.

She didn’t know her name. She didn’t know why her head hurt or why her reflection on the window felt so unfamiliar. Had she always looked like that?

Then, her eyes met his.

wanted to check on her. She didn’t know him, she was sure of that. But why did it feel like she should?

Noah showed up every day and brought her coffee: black with one sugar. She didn’t know why she liked it, but when she took the first sip, warmth spread through her body, as if her body could remember what her mind couldn’t.

He told her stories to make her laugh. He was easy going; effortless in the way he spoke, but his stories were always about ‘a friend of his’ or ‘someone he knew,’ never about her.

A stranger stood before her. His gaze was heavy and his eyes looked tired. He looked tense, as if he Memory loss. That’s why had been waiting for a she couldn’t remember her long time.

Pieces of a little girl: Lauren Boone ‘25 uses art to reflect on a fractured childhood A plentiful collage, filled with layers of various items such as newspaper, magazines, book pages, a CD, puzzle pieces, and pictures, are torn and pasted to create a visual representation and an emotional explosion to the viewer, all tied to childhood innocence.

Senior fine arts member and student in Portfolio art, Lauren Boone, uses her hardships and challenges she endured throughout her childhood to make brave testimonies to her struggles and perseverance through the beauty of art. Also shown as part of her piece is the quote “When I love, I love with all my heart,” which Boone claims is the embodiment of her childhood experience fueled by naiveness, “because kids really just like want the best and they don't really know better at such a naive time in their life, but could get treated awfully.”

Boone displays her artistic expertise and thoughtful creativity through the types of materials she used to make the collage. The items used to make her piece come from a deeper meaning rather than just being aesthetically pleasing. “I used the CD and puzzle pieces to represent childhood activities,” Boone saidtated. To make her piece even more personal, she used yellow to highlight “things that kind of apply to like myself, like growing up and being naive and wanting the best.”

-- Fiona Parnell

“Hey,” he said, his voice carefully measured.

“Hi,” she answered, her throat dry.

She never questioned it, because somehow, without knowing who she was, she was becoming someone else, and she liked who she was with him.

name until she read it on the clipboard. Olivia. Liv? It fit, yet it didn’t.

It felt like wearing The first time they someone else’s skin. kissed, it was

Then the nurse came in. “You had an accident,” she explained.” You hit your head.

Memory loss is expected, but—” Memory loss. That’s why she couldn’t remember her name until she read it on the clipboard. Olivia. Liv? It fit, yet it didn’t. It felt like wearing someone else’s skin.

When the nurse left, it was just her and the stranger again. She quickly learned his name was Noah. He explained that they both came in at the same time, so he

raining again.

They were walking together, his fingers brushing against hers.

She wasn’t sure who moved first, only that it felt like the pieces of the puzzle were finally falling into place; it didn’t feel like the first kiss.

She breathed in the smell of rain as she saw herself in the reflection of his eyes.

Everything felt right. For the first time she felt whole.

Lily Lenkowski ‘28

FINE ART

Nguyen Nguyen ‘27

Jahanvi Patel

JAHANVI PATEL

At the Spring Fling, Jahanvi Patel ‘25 drew henna on people’s hands for $5. The intricate designs were made with an herbal foam that came out of a topper. The henna hardened, and rubbed off to reveal an orange-brown stain. Not only were the patterns beautiful, they smelled good too, like herbs (which tracks, because it comes from the henna plant). Henna originated in India, where Patel’s family is from.

Victoria Real

FICTION

The Flavor of Grandmother’s Love

By Victoria Real

I

n winter, the aroma of simmering soup always filled Grandmother Stephany’s house, while spring brought the comforting scent of baking macaroni.

For Gisela, her granddaughter, that place was not only where she felt right at home, it was where she escaped to. Her grandmother’s warm hug served as her daily haven during her parents’ acrimonious divorce.

Every afternoon, after school, Gisela would run to Stephany’s house. There, she was always met with open arms and a plate of food that soothed both her stomach and her heart. On cold days, a steaming bowl of soup would warm her up; in spring, the scent of macaroni filled the air. After eating, they would sit together on the small couch in the living room, where her grandmother would tell stories of her youth or knit colorful scarves while gently stroking Gisela’s hair. These were simple moments, but they were filled with love.

However, Gisela grew up with time. Sports, homework, and friends made it harder and harder for her to visit her grandmother’s house. Stephany kept waiting, her table set for two, hoping to see her little girl running toward her like before. The house, once a refuge full of laughter and familiar aromas, began to feel emptier.

One afternoon, after months without visiting, Gisela stopped by her grandmother’s house. She knocked on the door, and when it opened, she found the same warmth as

always, though Stephany was now a little more fragile, a little more tired. Her hands trembled more, but her smile had not changed.

“I saved some macaroni for you, my dear,” her grandmother whispered softly.

At that moment, a lump formed in Gisela’s throat. She realized how much she had missed this place, this unconditional love.

From then on, Gisela vowed never to let time tear them apart. She began visiting more frequently, taking back those afternoons, listening intently to each story, each bit of guidance. But those years are merciless, and slowly, bit by bit, Stephany became weaker. Until one winter, the house was quiet. Gisela came over one afternoon, but this time, her grandmother wasn’t there to greet her at the door. The chair was empty, the soup was still warm, but the loving soul that had once filled that home was gone.

Even though Stephany was greatly missed, Gisela was certain that her affection was still there. It was present in every scarf she knitted, in the smell of macaroni, and in the stories she treasured. In order to ensure that her grandmother’s legacy of love persisted, Gisela prepared meals in her honor each winter and spring.

After all, though time may pass, love’s flavors never truly fade.

(Previously published in the Willis Hall Herald February 2025 issue.)

FINE ART

Mr. Lamar by Tina Chikwata Tina Chickwata ‘26 utilized charcoal pencils to recreate a photograph of Kendrick Lamar. “I chose charcoal because I like the way you can shade with it,” Chickwata said,“and I wanted to try a new material.” This piece was displayed alongside Chichwata’s other artwork at this year’s art show.

Chickwata used less detail than the original photograph contained as she felt she wasn’t as good as she’d like to be at realism. In the top left corner you can see the words, “But a mask won’t hide who you really are inside.” “I added the words that come from one of his songs because I like what he says in the lyrics.”

By Kaitlyn Perkins

FINE ART

Drake by Tina Chikwata Tina Chickwata based this piece on Drake’s Thank Me Later album cover. “I like the music and I like the style of the album cover,” Chickwata said. This piece complimented her the two other pieces she featured at the Spring Fling and Art Show because they went along with the rapper theme. “I tried to make this one look exactly like the cover because I wanted a bigger version to hang in my dorm room.”

By Kaitlyn Perkins

Mr. Moral

A Republic Undaunted

By Mason Bibby

When Americans marshalled in battle array, They knew, win or lose, they’d yearn for the day, Where freedom, liberty, and justice prevail, And the work of the despot would hold no avail.

When Americans traveled the unruly West, They knew, like before, they were put to the test, Of travel, survival, and a march toward the goal, They’d trudge day and night to make the continent whole.

When Americans faced their brothers like foes, And the Union was called up to reckon with woes, The republic was steadfast, for it had no fear, In building a future both free, bright, and clear.

Mr. Morale by Tina Chikwata Tina Chikwata ‘26 displayed her acrylic painting at the Spring Fling and Art Show on May 9. This painting, Mr. Morale, was inspired by Kendrick Lamar’s album cover. She created her painting in an abstract style because she found that style to be easier and more interesting. “I wanted to make my own album cover,” Chikwata said, “because I like the music.”

By Kaitlyn Perkins

When Americans gathered on Europe’s far shore, Their foe, not intimidating, but inflamed them the more, Through the wires and trenches, through the blood and the mud, A seed planted for a flower of freedom to bud.

When Americans landed on Normandy’s beach, With a mission in mind: to stop tyranny’s reach, Through the landmine and pillbox, they fought to the hill, And every soldier’s valor also made his will.

When Americans rose after towers did not, While righteous in anger, for freedom they fought, Through the mountains, the deserts, the streets and the field, Until terror itself was compelled into yield.

Now Americans gather, Americans heed, You may disagree, but do not sow the seed, Stand tall, America, united and free, For the future is coming, and it starts now with thee.

GRAPHIC DESIGN Izzy Snyder

By Akali Koeda For the first time in a while, I looked her in the eye Although she was now just a stranger My heart told me to not be shy My brain said I didn't know her Her mouth quirked up with a laugh A searching twinkle in her eyes The familiar feeling, yet the empty half Begging to be found with an agonizing cry Falling just short of my fingertips Trying to catch but my arms move slow Losing control, forcibly following script Our hearts dancing a silent tango of friend and foe I blindly stumble in the dark Without a light to guide me When all of a sudden I'm sent back to the park Where we as children were giggling with glee So I'll gladly rot in memories of the past The one abandoned when "cals" started to matter In delusion I'll bathe like a plaster cast Stuck in the days before my soul was shattered

Peter Anderson

Spring Break in the Bahamas Digital Photography by Charlie Zhao

FINE ART

Roadtrip Remi Lewis

POETRY

By Mason Bibby

SONG OF AMERICA My heart, it sings of America, A nation proud and free, A people all joined, hand in hand, Across this land of liberty.

My heart, it sings of America, My home without a doubt, Forever richly blessed, it is, From Sea to Sea throughout, My heart, it sings of America And its veterans brave and true, Who valiantly fought and nobly died, For Old Glory, red, white, and blue, My heart, it sings of America, And in the Constitution’s creed, “We the People of these States,” Shall reject the tyrant’s greed.

My heart, it sings of America, One nation under God, A bountiful, free, and happy land, On which evil will never trod.

This collage, named Roadtrip, was carefully crafted by Remi Lewis ‘27. Lewis states that she took inspiration both from her personal travels as well as social media, saying “I really like to travel, and I had been seeing a lot of collages on Pinterest.” Along with this she made an effort to include eye-catching images to focus the audience’s attention on certain images. She says “I wanted to make it colorful”, so she “picked pictures of places that caught [her] eye.”

My heart, it sings of America, A place where the people reign, Where never a dictator’s haughty stride, Shall inflict any such pain.

My heart, it sings of America, “E pluribus unum” we proclaim, Upon fair patriots’ lowly graves, We stand guard for freedom’s flame.

My heart, it sings of America, Forever in God is our trust, Though roughly weathered her surface may be, The torch of liberty shall not rust.

My heart, it sings of America, May its spirit never falter, For here’s my heart and here’s my hand, Upon my country’s altar.

FINE ART Indira Weed

POETRY

By Mason Bibby

A young man weeps for Virginia’s pride and joy, For the innocence torn from him when he was but a boy, His college days perverted, and his old Alma Mater, Lay stained by the blood of the innocents’ slaughter.

A young woman waits, her head in her hands, At the place where she and lover met—where his memory still stands, Her spirit, downcast, but her resolve never totters, She views with a wry smile the Duck Pond’s still waters.

A family wails, their hearts ripped in twain, They are stricken with grief and unimaginable pain, For the child they lost, for those of so many others, Because the April tragedy took their Hokie sisters and brothers.

A professor lies now in eternal rest, His courage a testament to humanity’s best.

For his students, he sacrificed his life, In the spirit of defiance to personal vice.

A university cries out, for its sister is harmed, It displays that its grounds are not where intolerance is farmed, With a steely resolve, it stands with pride, As its students with those of its sister abide.

Weed creates snapshot of lost times: Moment or momentary?

A soft spoken, but powerful testament about the correlation and often debated positive or negative value of a photo’s impact on living in the moment is displayed in Senior Indira Weed’s AP Art exhibit. The most obvious and highlighted component is the quote “The forgotten moments are the price of continued participation in life” by Sarah Manguso. Each letter placed with magazine clippings creates an abstract and striking representation of these important words.

“For this piece, I was inspired by the quote ‘“The forgotten moments are the price of continued participation in life’” by Sarah Manguso, because I felt like it really summed up the whole thesis of my AP art sustained investigation.”

Relating to the title of her piece ‘The forgotten moments’: throughout this year in art, Weed tied her questioning and uncertainty of the value of a photo to create many pieces, tying to her AP thesis Weed says “Which was how photos and “capturing the moment” impact our ability to truly live in the moment.” Weed also tells us, “While photos allow us to look back on past experiences and remember things we may have forgotten otherwise, the act of taking a photo can pull us out of the moment and cause us to become a spectator in our own lives, the beauty of living to the fullest without taking pictures is that we may forget them, but that’s ok.”

-- Fiona Parnell

A campus moves on, though it never forgets, The pain of the memory, the sting of regret, But a people must keep moving, and onward is the trek, To honor, always, the 32 at Virginia Tech.

GRAPHIC DESIGN Poly Gracie Munro

GRAPHIC DESIGN Blonde Jacob Johnson

Justus Horner

Monica Koene

NCS

By Mason Bibby From the Willis building’s quiet halls, To Eaton’s quiet pride, We sing to you, dear North Cross School, And your mem’ries walk beside.

From Cook’s vast green athletic field, To Slack Hall where we dine, We sing to you, dear North Cross School, And we know that you’ll be fine.

From Fishburn’s noble acting stage, To Ellis, our first page, We sing to you, dear North Cross School, And the mighty Raider age!

So fear ye not, dear graduates, Though you be out of time, We know that here at North Cross School, Your greatness ever shines.

Julia Cephas

Faith Johnson

This acrylic painting by Faith Johnson ‘28 includes marker and detailing. Her inspiration for this art came from Pinterest. The original painting had different designs, including cheetah print and glare effects. “I wanted to keep mine simple,” Faith said. Penelope Lampros helped Faith sketch the crosses in this painting.

Kaitlyn Perkins

FINE ART AND POETRY

By Kaitlyn Perkins Applying It

I’m looking at my teacher and thinking “what is this about?”

Why do I need this for my future job? How is this equation going to help?

Why do I need to know about Saturn's many rings or the tense of this and antonym of that?

And I get annoyed thinking why should I care?

And soon enough I realise I’m applying it everywhere.

As soon as someone brings up Odysseus as he sails the great blue seas, I’m ready to impress with all my knowledge of Homer’s Odyssey.

And then I’m sitting in my Global Studies class and realizing that evolution applies to history as well.

And I’m contemplating the links between antibiotic resistance and all that I just learned about biological fitness.

And then I’m learning punnett squares and soon have to FOIL, but lucky enough that’s so easy because I did my math class work.

And then I go home and listen to a song and realize I know what they’ve been saying all along. I didn't think I’d understand because those lyrics are in Spanish. Soon enough I got it because it’s what I learned in class.

And now I know that though it might not yet, everything we learn in school will someday make some sense.

Kaitlyn Perkins created this mixed media piece in her Introduction to Art class this year.

Waiting for Summer I wait and wait for school to end and look forward to the day when I’ll be off the hook for all the big tests and essays.

I think of all the homework that I won’t have to do and all the freetime I will have when they let us out of school.

And then finally the Monday comes when I get to sleep in.

And before I know it I can’t wait for school to start again.

Procrastination

When I sit and do my homework I just can get so bored.

So I think “I’ll take a break and then get back to work.”

Maybe I’ll grab a snack and then scroll the internet and then an hour later I’ll remember I have to study for my test.

So I’ll resume my work and try to focus but I just can’t concentrate today.

So I’ll stare at my screen hoping that my homework will go away.

And when I realize it’s still there I get a bit overwhelmed and then I think “eh, I’ll just do my work tomorrow.”

Tired at School Sometimes I’m so tired but I cannot go to bed.

Like when I’m sitting in class and boredness fills my head.

And I’m looking at my teacher and thinking what are they saying?

And I’m looking at the time and thinking when is this class ending?

And I’m drifting off to sleep and have to pinch myself awake.

And I’m afraid that if I fall asleep I’ll be embarrassed when I wake.

So I just sit and dream about sprawling out on the desks or crawling on the floor for just a quick little rest.

But then my classmate cracks a joke and I suddenly turn my head.

And then my teacher looks at me and says “what does this mean?” and I look around the class scrambling for something.

I blurt out an answer.

And sometimes I get lucky, other times they obviously know I wasn’t really listening .

And finally the bell rings and eventually I’ll go home.

And mom will say “so how's your day?” and I’ll say “okay” and do it again tomorrow.

FICTION

FICTION

Don’t trust anyone, everyone is unreliable

By Nola Daninger

“

Don’t trust anyone, everyone is unreliable in some way or another.” That is the one thing I remember my dad saying before he died. Now, I stand by it.

Growing up, Clarissa was always a shy girl. She constantly had to be taken out of daycare because she was crying, because she had no friends. All her mom wanted for her was to be happy and have people she could talk to outside of herself. Fortunately, when Clarissa got to high school, she made a friend group that was inseparable, or so she thought.

Clarissa - I have always enjoyed going to school. Not the work part of it, not even really the social part of it. I love talking to teachers, not about school, but their views on life. This might seem like a weird thing to love, but to me, it came naturally. My English teacher Mrs. Carrico was my favorite teacher. She not only was a good teacher, but she had the same views and ideas as me. She was one of my first friends I made when I transferred to North Creek High School. Surprisingly, she wasn’t my only friend.

I made five friends throughout freshman year, who are now my favorite people. It is crazy to think that I didn’t have most of my life, now I can’t go a day without talking to them. The first friend I made is named Molly, she has cherry red hair and bright green eyes. She introduced me to most of my other friends. My other friends' names are Sam and Ellie, they are twins with curly blonde hair. They introduced me to their other best friend, who is now ours, Ben. Then there’s my favorite friend, in secret of course. Her name is Emma, she has straight, shiny brown hair and is

probably shorter than an elf. Anyway, these girls got me through most of freshman and sophomore year, at least for the most part.

Emma and I are walking to science class, talking about our group project.

People always look at me and my friends weird, I guess it’s because Sam and Ellie can be mean, they might think the rest of us are mean too.

“This project might actually be fun!” Emma states.

“Yeah, hopefully. I don’t know if I can deal with a boring essay we have to write and some stupid project.” The project turns out to be something about the human brain, and how memory really works. Mr. Johnson states that it’s important that we do this project because we are inclined to know about the human brain at a young age. I think its weird, but all of my friends are very excited about it, so I play along.

“Uggh, I don’t want to go to English class,” Ben whines. “My day’s actually going well so far.” Everyone laughs.

Ben sits on the right of me and Sam on the left. Mrs. Carrico is late, she is almost never late.

“Where’s Mrs. Carrico?” I asked my friends. A bewildered look takes over Ben’s face.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” He laughs, Sam laughs even harder.

“Is this another one of your stupid jokes Claire?” She looks at me, sympathetically.

I look around the classroom, everyone is laughing and joking around, until a tall man walks in. I think, Oh, there must be a sub.

But why would my friends make such a random joke about Mrs. Carrico, and why did this odd-looking man not have a name

tag, like most subs do?

“Whatever,” I sighed. Ben and Sam looked at me, then each other, then at the “teacher.” She will probably be back tomorrow, I think to myself.

Days pass, I haven’t seen Mrs. Carrico, and haven’t even heard her name leave someone's mouth since mine, on the day he wasn’t in her classroom. I walk to lunch with my head down, wondering where my favorite teacher is and why everyone thinks I am crazy. I sit down with my usual lunch table of friends.

“What’s wrong, Clarissa?” Ellie asked me as soon as I sat down. I love how my friends always can tell when something is up, I have never received that kind of attention in my life. Well, except for recently.

“Nothing,” I muttered, I know they would just laugh, thinking I’m making another one of my “jokes.” I put my lunch box on the table ready to do the daily lunch swap our group participates in at lunch.

Everyday we would all fight for Emma’s chocolate pudding. I scan around our table to find my best friend.

“Oh, where’s Emma?” I ask.

Everyone looks at me, then ignores my question and continues having their conversations.

Molly turns to me, “Who are you talking about?” She whispers, so quietly that no one else at the table can hear us.

“What do you mean?” I ask in perplexment. “Where is Emma, that is what I asked. You know, the girl who’s obsessed with hair care and always has something chocolate flavored?” Molly looks at me as if I just asked why the sky is falling down.

“Claire, what?” She laughs, shoving me in the shoulder as if I am trying to be funny. I look around the table. They

are laughing too. “You are something else, Claire.” Molly announced. I glance down at my purple socks, feeling just as unseen as they are beneath my jeans.

A week went by, and neither Claire or Mrs. Carrico was nowhere to be seen. I did not know what to do with myself. I had no one to talk to about it, so I neglected all of my complex thoughts.

Basketball season was starting up and the twins and I always played on the same team. I was actually excited to go and play after so many months. Me, Sam and Ellie walked into the locker room to get ready.

To my surprise, it was just us.

“Where is everyone?” Sam asked.

“They must be in the varsity locker room or something,” Ellie answered.

“Let's get ready.”

The twins went to go change their clothes in the stalls as I changed into my basketball shoes.

After I get everything on, I go to do my hair.

The twins are still in the stalls so I tell them to hurry up so we can leave. No answer. I wonder if they already left, but I didn’t see them leave the stalls. I walk up to the stalls and don’t see them. What? I think to myself as I look under the stalls. No shoes. They probably already left.

I walk to basketball practice anticipating to see them there. I don’t. None of my other friends were on the team, so I didn't bring it up and waited to see them the next day. When I walk to first period the next day, I ask Ben if he knew why Sam and Ellie didn’t go to practice. I don’t know why I expected a regular reason. As per usual, I received the same befuddled look I always did. I look down at my phone, 8:07. I just need this day to be over.

FICTION

FINE ART

Tragedy lives

Ezra Vu

By Mia Esposito

I

t was a tragedy that ruined the whole town. How could this happen? They were so young. Oh, and the girl, that dear girl has to live with it.

That’s what everyone was saying. Not to my face, no, what they said to my face was, “Hallie! You’re so strong!” I guess you could say that. I didn’t do much except slam into the airbag that was deployed when we crashed. Zach was the real hero; he was the one that called 911. Zach was always prepared and cautious. That made it even more shocking when we ran off the road.

It was Valentine’s Day. We had gone over to Layla Mason’s house to see the rest of our friends. It was dark when we left, around 10:00 I think. He took the back way to my house, the way through the woods with all the twists and turns. He was a safe driver.

I was never worried. We would laugh and scream the lyrics to whatever song was playing. We always had the windows down.

I would look outside most of the time, maybe if I had been looking at the road…

It would not have changed a thing, at least that’s what the cops told me.

“No, you don’t understand,” I sobbed to the detectives in my hospital room after the crash. “He would never.”

“Miss Armstrong, I know you’re upset (Previously published in the Willis Hall Herald February 2025 issue.)

right now but can you think of another reason?” The taller of the two detectives asked me.

“What do you mean another reason? I can think of plenty. Deer, maybe even a bear! We were in the middle of the woods!!”

“He was also 17, maybe he just… Lost control.” The short one said solemnly.

Needless to say I didn’t talk to the cops much after that. Zach’s parents were in shambles. His older brother and I were talking at his funeral.

“Hallie, I just don’t think I can go back to school with them like this.” Mark, Zach’s older brother, told me.

“Mark! You have to, it’s what Zach would want. He was so happy you finally got out of this town, he always said you were meant for bigger things,” I tried my best to console him.

“To be honest I don’t know how I’m going to get past this,” I knew exactly what he was saying. Zach wasn’t just my boyfriend; he was my best friend. I had no clue how my life would look without him.

Monday came too quickly. Weeks passed, then months. Next thing I knew it had been a year. A year since my world ended; a year since life changed forever. It was hard waking up everyday. For a moment in the mornings I would forget that he was lost to me. In reality I was the lost one. The pain was too much, he was my life. One day everything was torn from my grasp. I wish I could end this happily, but I don’t think I know what happiness is anymore.

AP Art student Ezra Vu ‘25 uses mixed media to explore the emotional complexity of streetwear and identity in her art. A solitary human figure, outlined in glitter, sits curled inward, surrounded by floating logos from well-known clothing brands. This striking contrast between the sparkling figure and the overwhelming presence of logos captures the tension between self-expression and social judgment.

“My topic was how streetwear can show self-expression,” explained Vu. “But I also wanted to explore how people feel bad or judged about branding and fashion design.”

Ezra’s exploration of this theme goes beyond the canvas. It was also the focus of her senior speech titled ‘’Streetwear: Empowering Self-Expression’’, where she reflected on how fashion can become a bold and personal statement in a world full of expectations. By placing brand logos around the figure rather than on it, Vu highlights external pressures, while the glitter symbolizes the self striving to be seen. “I used glitter to make the person stand out,” she said. “Because even when we’re surrounded by labels, there’s still a person underneath.” Her art invites viewers to ask: are we expressing who we are or who the world wants us to be? -- Victoria Real

READING SURVEY We surveyed 160 of Upper School students in November to understand NCS reading tendencies.

READING SURVEY

INTERVIEW

Journalism students ask Ted Blain for help publishing Calliope

Imparting wisdom: Ted Blain speaks to the Journalism class on Jan. 29 in front of the website of the Woodberry Forest literary journal, The Talon. Photo by Robert Robillard

Ted Blain, a retired Woodberry Forest school teacher came to campus for three weeks as a substitute teacher in AP Literature. At Woodberry Forest, he had been the advisor of the literary magazine, The Talon. He has published two novels and multiple short stories. We invited him to class to share some of the wisdom he gained over the course of his career as a writer and a teacher. Edited for redundancy.

Jacob Johnson: What was the biggest motive you pushed for your staff at Woodberry?

TB:I guess the main thing is just to hit the deadlines . . . that is maybe the hardest part. Deadlines are good. They can focus

the mind and get everybody aware that that things need to be finished. But I think that that the best kind of writing occurs over time, so that you’re not trying to do everything at the last minute. You you’ve had a chance to read, to write, to polish, to edit, to rewrite, so that when the deadline approaches, you’re more worried about layout and illustration and getting the pagination right and all those things. Lauren Boone What led up to your your interest in English and journalism?

TB: I’ll try to give you the very, very short version. I grew up here in Roanoke on Rosslyn

INTERVIEW Avenue, and was typical South Roanoke kid growing up in Roanoke in the 1950s and early ‘60s. And I can remember when I was maybe 10 years old, I was sick . . . .

And my Aunt Margaret brought by a copy of a Hardy Boys book. And I had never before experienced a book that was more words than illustrations. It did have a couple of illustrations, but it was mostly words. And I started reading this book, and the next thing I knew, it was dinner time. I had been completely transported out of my life and out of my sickness and everything else, into the world of this book. And I loved that it was such a wonderful escape . . . .

I loved being in that world so much as a reader that I wanted to be in that world as a writer, too. So I started writing stories, and that’s the thing that I enjoy, even today the most about writing is to get into the world of the story so that I am living and experiencing what the characters are going through all on their own. If it’s really working, it’s more like I’m transcribing what I’m seeing rather than reporting what I already know. The best kind of stories I’ve ever written have been ones where I had some vague idea of how it was going to end, but the ending changed as I told the story. It just got to be a more organic process.

Margaret Bass What do you think is like the most important thing about interviewing somebody?

TB: First of all, get the person relaxed and confident and trusting you, you know, assuring the person and tell the person the truth. You know, if you’re planning to use the name of the person, make sure the person knows that. And if the person says, don’t use my name, honor that. But then I think that if you can, if you can record the conversation, it’s going to be more accurate when you try to go back and quote something. But also, I think that it’s

it’s important for you to maybe take notes, at least, this is what I experienced. I would be taking notes on what the person was saying. I thought it was really important, but I wouldn’t write it down right away. I’d let the person say that thing and I think, oh yeah, that’s that’s big. That’s good. But then I wouldn’t just jot it right down. I’d let the conversation go on and then casually write something down so that the person wasn’t particularly worried about saying the wrong thing or giving away too much, or revealing something that he or she didn’t want revealed. So I think you need to be just listening really well, and if somebody says something that you don’t understand, just ask for clarification.

Caroline Welfare So what advice do you have from people who want to further or advance or just start out on their writing skills?

TB: I would say two things, and you’ve heard all these before. This is not going to be news to you. You should read a lot. You should read. I mean, you’ll learn so much about storytelling and writing from reading the work of others. You’ll start out imitating the kinds of things that you read, and then you’ll one day find your own voice as a writer. But the other thing is to write. Don’t wait. Don’t think, well, when I’m in college or after I graduate from college, I’m going to write this story, or I’m going to write, I’m going to capture this remarkable, memorable person later. Do it now, even if you’re just keeping a journal, even if you’re just writing it for yourself, go on and do it. Don’t delay. Writers write. They write and if you say, if you’re dreaming of being an author, that’s the wrong dream. Authors are people who have written things. I take it that everybody in here wants to be a writer, and that means that writers write just kind of write, write it down, even if you run into a snack, you know, you get into the story and

INTERVIEW you don’t know where it’s going. Okay, put it aside. Either it will work itself out, or it’ll just be this fragment sitting there that you might use years later or never. But the important thing is that you’re writing. My favorite quotation about writing comes from Thomas Mann, the great German-American novelist who said, and he was very accurate about this, writers are people for whom writing is more difficult than it is for everybody else. Because writers want to get it exactly right. We want to find exactly the right word, exactly the right image, the best pacing, the proper way to conclude whatever it is we’re working on. We want to get every comma and every period just right. We just want to have it right, not almost right or close enough, but right.

Mason Bibby So I found when I’m writing opinions that sometimes I have to kind of soften the blows a little bit. So do you do the same thing, or do you just say what you believe, regardless of the potential repercussions?

TB: I think it’s really important to keep the audience in mind if, if you are writing for the North Cross community, you want to try to persuade as many people as possible, don’t you? You want to convince them that your opinion is a good opinion, and that what you are saying is really worth buying into. So if you start off just blasting away and insulting large numbers of people in the community, you’re not likely to succeed in that goal. And Lauren was doing a similar exercise for me in English class last week where I asked her to write a movie review and to evaluate the reviewer’s response to the movie. And the exercise was to show that she understood the other side of the question, to demonstrate that she understood the opposite of what she was going to be saying, so that then, when she got to her point, she had already shown the other side, that she got their concerns

and caught on to what they would have said if they had been in her position. Is that helpful? I think that your question basically is, do I just blast away, or am I diplomatic?

And I think that diplomacy is likely to win you more readers.

DOODLES

Doodling all day

Mia Esposito What do you when you have writers block?

TB: Take a walk. I’m really serious about that. I used to think that I was so weird because I would sit there and I would think, Okay, I’m here in front of my computer. I’ve got to figure this out. And then finally, after the blood had sprung out of my forehead, and I was so frustrated, and I couldn’t stand it anymore, we just get out and go for a walk.

Caroline Welfare What is your favorite genre to read or write?

I really enjoy all kinds of writing, fiction and nonfiction, or reading fiction and nonfiction.

I like to alternate, actually, between one of the other for writing. I mean, I’ve had most of my success publishing with mystery stories. That’s my main thing. But the story that Lauren is reading for her next English class is not a mystery story, it’s a literary story. So I like to write that. I also like to write non-fiction blogs.

Kaitlyn Perkins I was just wondering if there was one publication that would be good for us to read.

TB: I choose the New Yorker magazine. It’s not pitched at high school kids. . . . You’d be eavesdropping on a conversation that was not intended for you, but you can still learn a lot about writing from reading the articles in the New Yorker, just really good writing.

See more Q&A at willishallherald.org

By Caroline Welfare

I

reach into my backpack, grab my pencil pouch, unzip it, and grab a pen, pencil or marker to either write or decorate my notes.

Over the course of a class period, what was once a container of new material to learn is now overflowing with doodles my neurodivergent brain needed to draw to focus. Flowers, stars, birds,

frogs, crabs, that one stylized ‘S’ that everyone drew at some point, miscellaneous shapes that could have been something at one point, and geometric patterns because I could.

Many people doodle on the outskirts of their notes, on their hands, in their work.

I think the act of repetitive movement helps me focus, retain information and survive a class period.