The Ellipsis (2025-2026 School Year Edition) by The Ellipsis & The Parenthetical: Writopia Lab Literary Magazine

WRITOPIA LITERARY MAGAZINE 2025-2026 School Year Edition

THE ELLIPSIS

TABLE OF CONTENTS 6 23 31 33 34 35 37 38 39 40 42 54 62 69 72 73

The Bubble City Bea’s First Day Untitled Document That is Titled for Some Weird Reason. The World Outside Just Imagine Moonlight My Clothes Silence In My Bag Monkey Lounge Divya Missed Her Cue He is stable (You are deep) Researchers and Mutations Little Girl Criminals Dictionary

Asha Nundy Mara Elena Delmar Eleanor Ahn Matisse Priven Phuong Mai Pham Magdalena Glenn Hannah Dailey Hannah Dailey Hannah Dailey Camilla Leung Amaya Chugani Lily Boegli Alma Metlitsky Kaija Rodriguez-Spencer Kaija Rodriguez-Spencer Noah Rave-Meir

MASTHEAD Shanille Martin - Bay Area Regional Manager Shanille Martin joined the Writopia team in 2019 as a WriCampia counselor and assistant instructor while studying Creative Writing at Purchase College. Since graduating in 2020, she has been teaching creative writing and debate workshops at camp and at Writopia full-time. Shanille has been published in various magazines and platforms such as Gandy Dancer, Newsweek, Italics Mine, and Submissions Magazine. She is a co-founder of Brown Sugar Literary Magazine, which publishes the marginalized voices of women of color. A former high school debate team captain, Shanille is thrilled to now teach both creative writing and debate at Writopia. She is currently working on her first novel. Imani Parker - Associate Program Manager Imani Parker first joined Writopia as a WriCampia counselor in 2019, where she assisted Léna Roy in a creative writing workshop, co-led a dance elective, made meaningful friendships with her fellow counselors, and more. She holds an MFA in Fiction Writing from Columbia University’s School of the Arts and a BA in Creative Writing from Purchase College. In the past, Imani has served as a Fiction Reader at The Hudson Review, a juror at the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, an Americorp Member at City Year New York, and an Event Production Intern at The Center for Fiction. She is an Event Coordinator and Editor at Brown Sugar Literary Magazine. Imani has been published in Embark Literary Journal, Columbia University’s 2023 Thesis Anthology, and Italics Mine. She has completed two manuscripts and is querying while working on her third novel. Lydia Schultz - Registration Associate Lydia Schultz joined her first Writopia workshop as a writer way back in 2011, and has more or less been here ever since. She is thrilled to officially join the team as a Registration Associate after many summers of interning! Lydia graduated with a B.A. from Bard College in 2025 with a double major in Literature and Written Arts. While at Bard, she worked at the writing center as an essay tutor, served as Prose Editor for the literary magazine Feeding the Crows, and received the 2024 John and Margaret Bard Scholars Prize in Languages & Literature. Beyond writing and reading, she loves walking fast, baking, and watching stand-up comedy. Lydia is, from personal experience, deeply appreciative of Writopia's commitment to fostering a love of language in kids and teens, and she is excited to be a part of the team that helps make it all happen. With special and major thanks to our high school intern, Lourdes Mendieta Macía, for dedicating a week of her internship to supporting the creation of this issue. 5

The Bubble City Asha Nundy, 12, Washington D.C. I looked up at the tall, dark house. It was three stories tall and painted completely black. The trees surrounding it covered the sun, casting the house into shade, which made it look even darker. It was in the middle of a forest, and honestly, it was kind of ominous. But it was our “great” new home.

“You go and explore the new house, Evelyn,” my mom said.

I nodded, started up the creaky stairs, and opened the door. I took off my shoes and walked up the stairs. When I got to the top, I noticed a green glow coming from the farthest room from the stairs. I opened the door and saw the depression of a handprint in the wall. I placed my hand in it. It fit perfectly.

Suddenly, the wall spun around, revealing a hidden room. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw what had been making the green light. On a pedestal in the middle of the room was a gold necklace with a green and blue pendant. When I looked closer, I saw little bubbles floating inside the pendant. I clasped it around my neck, and suddenly the world started spinning. It went faster and faster until it stopped, and I collapsed. *** When I came to, I was in the middle of a massive city. I looked up. Instead of the sky, there was a bubble. Not the little bubbles you blow, like the ones floating in my necklace—a massive bubble that seemed to cover the entire city. I stood up, checking to see if my necklace was still there. It was, and inside, the bubbles were spinning. Out of nowhere, I saw a girl right before she barreled into me.

“Hey!” I yelled.

“Put that necklace away!” she hissed.

“Well, nice to meet you too, and I accept your apology,” I replied, tucking my necklace under my shirt.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing my arm. “It’s not safe here. And I never offered an apology.”

I followed her down a long alley to a brick wall. “I would run now,” she said.

“WHAT!?!?!?! Do you think I’m crazy? I’m not killing myself!”

“Trust me,” she said, pulling me into the wall so fast there wasn’t any time for me to react.

I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. I felt something scratching my skin on all sides, then it was dark, and the air cooled. When I opened my eyes, I saw a cave filled with books, food, and small containers.

“Now we can talk safely,” she said, sitting on a mattress in the corner.

I sat down next to her.

“I’m Evelyn,” I said.

“Aarna,” she replied. “This world is in danger, and it’s least safe for you.”

“Why?” I asked, my stomach dropping.

“You are the necklace bearer. You are prophesied to save Bubble City and all its inhabitants.”

My head started to spin as she explained more.

“At random times, the Bubble descends, almost touching the ground. When that time comes, a necklace bearer will come. Using the bubble pendant, she will pop the Bubble and everyone will recover their memories. Until then, we wait. You are the necklace bearer. You must save Bubble City! The only problem is that no one knows what the Prophecy means, but legend says that the necklace bearer can decode it. The Prophecy goes like this:

“When the one with necklace comes here, And goes with another who has no fear, They’ll face the dark, go to the End, Strong together, the City they’ll mend.

She must go before the sun has set, On Down Day’s eve—the deadline’ll be met. If the Bubble still floats in the sky, Then all is lost, and hope will die.

But with the necklace that started her quest, She’ll have the power to pass the test. For it holds the key, the light, the spark, That pushes back the creeping dark.

Without it, she cannot break the spell, And all will fall where silence fell. But if she strikes, and it lands just right, The Bubble will break in glowing light.

Then truth will wake, and shadows flee, And all will know what they used to be.”

She handed me a paper.

“This is all I have. I went section by section,” she said.

I looked at the paper. It contained her notes on the Prophecy. More questions than answers.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I thought for a moment. If I were the true necklace bearer, I figured the answers would come to me. But they didn’t.

“Well… I don’t really…know. But maybe–”

“YOU DON’T KNOW?!?! HOW could you not know? The legend said that you would!”

She put her head in her hands and flopped onto the mattress.

“Well…maybe other people have some of the answers…”

“That might work,” she said, slowly getting up. “I know some people who aren’t Brainstolen, they just pretend they are! Maybe they can help!”

She dragged me through the wall again. On the other side, I felt a small piece of paper being pushed into my hand. Follow me and whatever you do DON’T SPEAK. Just pretend you live here and keep your expression blank. I’ll tell you when it’s safe.

I followed her to the most breathtaking building I’d ever seen. It was adorned with gold and crystal, with ivy crawling up the sides. Above the door, it said in emerald: Library.

“Hello, sir,” I heard Aarna say in a polite voice I didn’t know she had. “How is your day going?”

I looked over at Aarna. In front of her was a towering policeman.

“Fine. Who’s the girl behind you?” Then he turned to me. “What’s your name, girl?”

I remembered Aarna’s instructions: say nothing. So I stayed silent.

“You will speak when spoken to, child!” he roared.

“She’s mute, sir,” Aarna said calmly. “Never said a word in her life. She’s my friend. Her name is Evelyn.” Then her voice became serious, “Do you have an umbrella?”

The question made no sense. The sky was clear. And yet, suddenly, the scowl on the man’s face vanished and was replaced with worry.

“Come with me, Aarna…and Evelyn. Quick!”

Aarna and I hurried after him into a nearby alley. He told us to close our eyes and run. Yup. Another wall, except this one was made of concrete. We reappeared in a large room surrounded by ten adults. As soon as they saw me, they leaped to their feet and pointed a variety of sharp weapons at me. I raised my hands, looking to Aarna for help.

“Guys, it’s okay. This is my friend Evelyn.”

“Hi,” I said, waving at them.

“Do you have or need ice?” a tall woman with long black hair asked, her eyebrow raised.

It sounded like more code-speak.

“No, don’t worry, Ms. Pari. I’m fine,” Aarna replied, smiling.

“Okay,” the woman replied. All the weapons in the room came down.

Then Aarna addressed the room: “Alright, everyone, listen! This is Evelyn, the necklace bearer.”

The room erupted in murmurs. They were trying to hide what they were saying, but I could hear them. They didn’t believe I was the necklace bearer. They thought I tricked Aarna or stole the necklace.

“She is the necklace bearer,” Aarna said louder. “And I believe I am the Other. That means we’re running out of time till the Bubble descends. Has anyone figured out anything more about the Prophecy?”

She scanned the room. The lady, whom she called Ms. Pari, stood up. “I think that 'the End' that is spoken refers to a part of the Bubble.”

“Of course! I can’t believe I didn’t realize before!” Aarna smiled, then got somber again. “Anyone else?”

Another person stood up. “Maybe the necklace is the key to pop the Bubble?” he said uncertainly.

“Maybe… yes… That would explain why there won’t be any hope if she doesn't have the necklace. I once read that before people started getting Brainstolen, they tried to pop the Bubble with swords, knives, dynamite, but nothing worked. Perhaps the necklace…”

Aarna seemed lost in thought. Then she asked, “But why won’t she be able to pop the Bubble after Down Day?”

I looked across the room. No one stood up.

Suddenly, I had an idea. “What if after Down Day, I get, what did you say, Brainstolen?”

Everyone looked uneasy. Finally, Aarna spoke.

That is a… possibility. You are our only chance. I only hope the people who were Brainstolen get their memories back.”

But Aarna, are you really going to go with the — Evelyn?” Pari asked. “It could be dangerous.”

“It’s the Prophecy,” Aarna said.

I don’t like it. You’re too young, Aarna. We’ll find another Other…”

“There is no one else. There are risks, but what’s one girl in exchange for the safety of everyone in Bubble City?”

“The Prophecy is old! Things can be changed!” she argued, her eyes getting watery.

“Pari, they can’t. The Prophecy may be old, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. You know that as well as I do that I must go.” *** The next morning, we filled our backpacks with food, water, weapons — anything and everything we might need on our journey — and left. Our journey took us through a dense forest. The air became heavy, and as we walked, the trees seemed to lean towards us, as if they were listening. I kept looking back, hoping Pari would run after us, call Aarna back, and take her place. But no one came. It was only the two of us now. We walked on a fading path, nature beginning to reclaim it. Everything was covered in fine silvery dust that began to drift like mist in the air. Aarna walked ahead of me, looking around cautiously. It felt like I should stay silent, so I said nothing.

Eventually, we reached a massive ravine. A shattered bridge stretched across it, the planks rotten and broken, metal cables sagging like limp vines. In the center of the ravine was a narrow beam — metal, rusted, but intact. Aarna looked at it and then at me.

“Be very careful, and follow my footsteps exactly,” she said quietly.

She stepped onto the bridge and began crossing. I followed her onto the bridge, arms out for balance, carefully watching her steps, and walking where she walked. The wind howled around us, whipping our hair into our eyes and threatening to drag us down.

Then halfway across, the necklace began to glow.

“Stop,” Aarna called out from ahead of me. “Don’t move.”

My feet froze. The bubbles in my pendant began spinning wildly, faster than before. I could feel it vibrating against my chest.

“What’s happening?” I cried.

“I don’t know,” she replied shakily.

As I stood there, heart pounding, a shape emerged from the mist below. It was huge. Circular. Floating slowly upward toward the underside of the Bubble.

At first I thought it was a ship — but then I realized it was alive. Its eyes opened — glowing greenish blue — just like my necklace.

Aarna saw it too. “We need to go,” said Aarna, her eyes flickering in recognition. "Now.”

We ran, barely making it to the other side before the beam groaned and snapped in half behind us. We tumbled to the ground, breathing hard, the creature’s cry echoing behind us. Aarna sat up and stared at me.

“That was a Bubble Sensor,” Aarna said. “They are connected to the necklace and can tell when it’s near. And it tells everything to the officials, so in about a day, they’ll know about us as well.”

"Bearer of the Pendant. Turn back. The City is not ready."

I looked around, but there was no one. Just the voice, vibrating through the air like thunder.

Aarna stood up, her face defiant. “We’re not turning back. We can’t. We owe it to all the innocent Brainstolen people.”

We walked a little further, then we saw it — etched into a boulder just ahead, ancient-looking writing that shimmered as we got closer. Aarna brushed the dust off and gasped.

“It looks like the Prophecy…” she whispered.

I stepped closer and read the faded words aloud:

"When the heart of the city awakens, And light meets shadow in final stand, The bearer must descend, not rise, To where truth and memory lie hand in hand. One shall fall, one truth shall burn, Only then can the tide of fate turn."

Aarna stepped back. “That’s… that’s new. If this is part of the Prophecy, it was never recorded. I didn’t know it even existed.”

My stomach twisted. “One will fall? That means…”

Neither of us said anything after that. Aarna didn’t want to elaborate on that thought, and neither did I. So we just kept walking. We walked for days, the woods growing denser and colder. The silver mist thickened until it clung to our clothes, making our backpacks heavier. The silence was overpowering. It was the kind of quiet that made your ears ring and your heart pound.

Every step echoed louder than it should. Finally, the trees began to thin, and we found ourselves standing at the edge of a steep hill. Below us was a crater — massive, ancient, overgrown. And in the center of the crater stood a spire. It rose crookedly from the earth like a bone, tall and skeletal, its surface pulsing with a faint green light.

Aarna squinted at it.

“The End,” she murmured. “That’s what the Prophecy meant. Go to the End. This… this is the end of the Bubble. And…” She squinted at the sun. “It’s Down Day! We have to pop it. Now!”

I stared at the spire, feeling a strange heat at my chest. The necklace was glowing again, not as much as before, but steadily, like it was breathing.

We descended the hill quickly but cautiously. The crater ’s slope was slick with moss and roots, but the moment my foot touched the flat ground at the bottom, I felt a jolt.

Memory

It wasn’t mine. I was in someone else’s body — running, breathless, terrified. Someone was chasing me. Voices. Screams. The smell of burning paper.

Then the vision snapped back, and I was on the crater floor again, gasping.

Aarna grabbed my shoulder. “What happened?” she demanded worriedly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I saw something. A memory. But not mine.”

She looked up at the spire. “ Hmm… The Prophecy said, ‘where truth and memory lie hand in hand.’ This must be where the Brainstealers hid them.”

We walked slowly toward the spire. It was taller than I thought, at least ten feet, and covered in symbols that flickered faintly, like old lights struggling to stay on. The closer I got, the more the symbols glowed. As we approached, a platform shimmered into view near its base. Aarna stopped.

“Look.”

On the platform sat a pedestal. And on the pedestal was a perfect depression, the same shape and size as the necklace. We both understood instantly.

I reached up and unclasped the necklace. My hands were trembling. The pendant pulsed against my skin like a heartbeat. I held it over the pedestal.

“Are you sure?” Aarna asked, her voice shaking.

“No,” I admitted. “But I think this is why I’m here.”

I placed the pendant onto the pedestal. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the trees moved to the side, making the clearing even bigger, and showing us the outside of the Bubble, a forest not unlike this one. Then the spire lit up, streaks of green and blue running down its surface like lightning. The symbols glowed brighter, forming patterns — stories, people, faces. The memories. And then the spire spoke.

“You have awakened the Heart,” it said in the same deep, ancient voice we heard before. “But the test remains. One truth must be burned. One must fall. Who shall it be?”

A glowing figure stepped from the spire. It looked like me, but older, eyes hollow and glowing with the same green light as the necklace. Aarna stepped between us.

“You’re not Evelyn.”

“I am what Evelyn could become,” the figure said. “If she fails. If fear overtakes purpose. If truth is denied to save comfort.”

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“This is the test,” the figure said. “Not of courage. But of sacrifice.”

Suddenly, Aarna stumbled back, nearly collapsing to the ground. She gripped her side, a tear in her shirt appearing where there had been none, showing a long, deep cut. Blood soaked her shirt.

“Aarna!” I caught her. “What’s happening?”

“The Prophecy,” she gasped. “One… one shall fall.”

“No. No way. I’m not letting you die!”

I stood up, shaking, turning to the figure.

“Take me instead! I’m the bearer!”

The figure tilted its head.

“You would offer your life for hers?”

“Yes!” I screamed.

The light dimmed. The spire rumbled.

“Then the choice is made,” it said.

And the wound vanished. The rip in Aarna’s shirt closed. The light in the pendant flashed brilliantly — and then shattered into thousands of floating bubbles, each containing a face, a memory.

The Bubble above began to crack. It was happening. The floating figure smiled.

“You chose truth over comfort. Sacrifice over fear. The spell is broken.”

It faded away, and the pedestal cracked down the middle. The bubbles that had been in the necklace floated upward, rising into the sky. The crack in the Bubble widened. And then it popped.

It was silent — not a bang, not a rumble. Just a shimmer. Then the sky was clear. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was filled with something else — remembrance. Even from the forest, we could hear the people screaming. Then laughing. Then weeping. They remembered. We stood there, hand in hand, staring at the sky. No longer a dome. Just open air. Aarna turned to me, eyes wide with wonder.

“You did it.”

“No,” I said. “We did.”

We stood still, the shattered pieces of the necklace floating around us like fireflies. Each fragment shimmered with green-blue light and hovered midair, weightless. Inside the glowing orbs, I could see people — images flickering like reflections in water. Laughing. Crying. Hugging someone. Walking through the old city before the Bubble was ever there. Memories. Aarna looked at memories. Her breathing was still a little shallow, her face was pale, but her eyes burned bright with something fierce — hope, disbelief, maybe both.

“It’s over,” she whispered. “It’s over!” Aarna repeated, her face brightening with joy.

But I wasn’t sure. Because even though the Bubble cracked and dissolved above us, the spire still pulsed with light. And the ancient voice hadn’t spoken its final word.

One shall fall. One truth shall burn.

I turned to the pedestal, now split down the middle. The floating memory-orbs were starting to drift away, toward the city, looking for the people they belonged to. Dozens of them, then hundreds. Each one was a piece of someone’s identity, waiting to return. And that’s when I heard it again. A second voice, female this time. Younger. Softer. But it was me. Not the glowing future-me from before. No. It was a voice I knew deep in my soul — my voice, but from when I was little.

"She’s not real."

I spun around, confused. Then I saw her. Another girl stepped out from the trees that surrounded the crater. She looked just like Aarna. Same eyes, same face, same careful fierceness in the way she moved. But her eyes were wrong. Flat. Empty.

“Aarna?” I asked cautiously.

The real Aarna’s hand gripped my wrist.

“That’s not me,” she said, eyes narrowed. “That’s a Memory Phantom.”

The fake-Aarna tilted her head.

“You have two choices.” She moved like Aarna. Even sounded like her. But there was no warmth. No spark. “Burn the memory of Aarna — and save her life. She will live, but she will not remember you or this journey. Or…” My chest tightened. “Burn your own memory. You will remember nothing of this city or your time here. You will return to your world. Alive. But without the truth.”

“That’s not fair,” Aarna whispered.

“I don’t think Prophecies care about fair,” I whispered back.

The Phantom extended a hand. A glowing orb appeared between us. Inside, a memory played — Aarna and me at the beginning, laughing together inside the hidden safehouse, whispering plans in the darkness. That tiny flicker of trust, that moment we stopped being strangers and became something else — something more. Friends.

“You must choose,” the Phantom said again.

Aarna grabbed my arm, voice trembling.

“Don’t do it. I don’t want you to forget. You deserve to remember this. What you did.”

I swallowed hard. My eyes burned.

“But what about you?” I asked. “You’ll forget who you are.”

“I won’t!” she said fiercely. “I’ll remember somehow. I have to. Evelyn, please — don’t erase yourself.” But I already knew what I had to do. I stepped toward the Phantom. My legs felt heavy, like moving through water.

“I choose…” I looked back at Aarna one last time. “…my memory.”

Aarna shouted something I didn’t acknowledge. I placed my hand on the orb. My hand fell into it like it was made of water. Then I felt it. It was like diving underwater with my eyes open. A flash of light. A thousand thoughts rushing at me. Then —

Nothing.

I blinked. I was lying on the forest floor. Alone. The sky above me was bright and blue. The necklace was gone. I sat up slowly, rubbing my temples. My backpack was next to me, the straps dusty. I didn’t remember packing it. I didn’t remember… much.

“Evelyn?” came a voice.

I turned.

A girl stood at the edge of the trees, her hair dark, her eyes cautious. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

“I…um…” I hesitated. “Hi.”

She smiled, small and uncertain.

“Hi. You dropped something.”

She handed me a small pendant of green-blue glass. It sparkled in the sunlight. I took it, confused. It felt warm in my palm. She stepped back.

“We’ve met before,” she said softly. “You won’t remember, but… You saved us. All of us.”

Then she turned and walked away. I stared after her, confused. Who was she? What had I saved anyone from?

The wind stirred around me, and I could have sworn I heard something in it. Laughter. Children. A voice that might have been mine, or maybe not. I looked down at the glass pendant again. Inside it, a tiny bubble floated — still spinning.

Epilogue

In the heart of the city, people woke up. They remembered birthdays, family dinners, books they’d written and never finished, names of long-lost friends. The safehouses filled with noise, with reunions, with stunned joy. The Bubble was gone. But so was the girl who had popped it. Aarna stood at the spire’s edge, her hand pressed to the cracked pedestal.

“I’ll find her again,” she whispered. “Even if she doesn’t remember me.”

Behind her, the others were rebuilding. Replanting gardens. Reopening the old schools and archives. She watched the sky — not a dome now, but open, real. Infinite.

In her pocket, she carried a journal. Every night, she added to it.

A record of a girl named Evelyn.

A girl who saved a city.

Even if she didn’t remember it.

Bea’s First Day Mara Elena Delmar, 12, NY

All right. A fresh start, finally. After going to the same public school with the same people for 5 years (PS.198 forever!!), a new middle school is definitely welcome. I walked inside the huge building (8 floors!) and was greeted by the biggest sensory overload of my life. Friends laughing and catching up, parents giving last hugs and ‘good luck,’ 5 adults desperately trying to record each new student’s name as the huge line behind them grew. I walked into the cafeteria and was abruptly stopped.

“Have you checked in?!” yelled a woman who must have been over 6 feet tall.

“Checked in?” I felt my nose wrinkle in confusion.

“You’re a new student. There’s no question there. I watched you walk through the door, but I didn’t see you check in at that table.” She pointed to the huge line, and I felt my stomach drop in disappointment. But what choice did I have? I would never argue back to the staff anyway.

“Oh, I didn’t realize. Thank you.” I hurried off from the woman’s eagle eye as quickly as I could. I got right in line behind a high school-looking type girl and, just like always, looked on the positive side. Because here is the thing. I am an overly, extremely, insanely positive person. Ironic seeing as my mom is the most negative human on earth. Actually, perhaps that makes it less ironic, because could my positivity be a defense mechanism? I was lost in thought over this possibility when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me, um, the line is moving. I’ve been trying to get your attention for like, 5 minutes already.” Her voice was dripping with rudeness, and she rolled her eyes at me before talking to her friend behind her. I scurried forward in the moving line, and felt my cheeks heat up when I heard a not-soquiet whisper from behind.

“Uh, finally. Took her long enough.”

Whatever. Just stare forward. One mean person doesn’t mean that everybody else will be mean. In fact, if I already met a bad person at the start of my day, then that means that the rest of the day will be filled with perfectly pleasant people. I’ll probably already have a friend by lunchtime! I breathed a

happy sigh of relief, partially because of my logical analogy but mostly because it was finally my turn in line.

“Next,” said a young, dark-skinned woman in huge cheetah print ankle boots. I was all smiles as I stepped up to the table.

“Bea Adnet. Pronounced Beh-ah.”

“Grade?”

“7th.” She skimmed a long list of names on a clipboard before checking off mine with a pen.

Alright, you’re good to go sweetie.”

I thanked her and finally walked inside the cafeteria. The bright white lights were bordering on the edge of sickly dentist office lights, saved by their light yellow tint. There were many cafeteria tables, at least 5 times as many as my old school. There were screens (screens!!!) advertising what would be for lunch later. I couldn’t hear anything at all over the yelling and excited squeals of friendship reunions. I watched two friends tightly hug each other by the cafeteria table next to me. That’s my goal. Next year, I’m going to be one of those girls. By the end of today, I will have met my best friend for life, just like my parents both did on their first day of 7th grade. I mean, to this day, we still have Friday dinners with Edin and Adam, Edin being my mom’s bestie and Adam my dad’s. It was foolproof. Even my older brother met his best friend on his first day, and even in their senior year of high school, they show no signs of stopping. So, it’s safe to say that my expectations are high. I felt familiar goosebumps on my arms as I thought about meeting my best friend for life in the next 7 hours. Now, where to sit?

“Move.” said a girl, aggressively pushing past me. I curled my hands into fists when I realized it was the girl from before. She strutted right up to a table filled with other girls and began chatting with them, eventually sitting down. Hadn’t she been in the line for new students? How did she already know all those people? And with that personality, how did all those people find her likable?

“Whatever,” I muttered to myself. I found a table that was empty and sat down, eagerly awaiting for someone to sit with me. I watched as students walked right by, already knowing what table they wanted. What had happened to all those new students in line? Were absolutely none of them looking for friends? I watched people walk by like a sad puppy until someone introduced themselves at a microphone.

“Hello? Can everybody hear me?” There was a collective yes. “Alright! So happy first day of school everybody! We are so excited to have you all here! I am your principal Katherine DeBenedictis, and may I just say, it is a wonderful feeling when another school year begins! I’m just going to review some details, and then we can get started!” I zoned out as she started going over regulations, yonder pouch policy, class times…. Blah blah blah. I had everything memorized anyway from the welcome email. I snapped back to attention when people stood and headed for the stairwell. I ran to catch up with the crowd and was soon caught in the middle of a bunch of tall high schoolers. Like, seriously tall. As in, NBA — like tall. What are they feeding these kids in that fancy cafeteria? I managed to avoid getting hit by the giants for the whole walk up the staircase, and I felt triumphant as I reached the 5th floor.

“Alright, homeroom 7-05. That should be a left here and then a right…” I kept talking to myself as I worked my way through the many hallways. I was so caught up in my search that I bumped smack into an adult.

“Oof! Do you need any help honey?” I looked up at the old-ish woman. She had a kind face, so I decided to trust her.

“Um, kind of. I’m looking for homeroom 7-05?”

“7-05? Oh my goodness, that’s on the other side of the floor! I’ll take you right there, don’t worry. Just follow me.”I didn’t take my eyes of her for the whole time as we walked through the twisting hallways. Eventually, she stopped right in front of a door marked 7-05.

Here you are. I’ll go and tell your teacher why you were late, why don’t you just take a seat?” I muttered a quick okay and kept my head down in shame as the class stared at me. My cheeks got even hotter when I heard the people across the table from me whisper, but I reminded myself to relax. So what if the day’s not off to a great start? It hasn’t even been the first period yet! Feeling confident once again, I raised my head only to make my stomach drop. Because sitting two tables away from me was none other than Ms. Mean Girl. I blinked quickly when I felt a few oncoming tears. Because how was this possible? It felt like a movie. We made eye contact for a brief second before she turned right back to her friend. For the second time in less than five minutes, I quickly gave myself some brief reassurance. Everybody abruptly snapped to attention when our teacher started talking.

“Hello kids, I’m going to be your homeroom teacher for the year! My name is Julian Rolof and I am sure that we have a great year ahead of us! As long as there is no funny business…” he gave a pointed look at three boys who had been messing around at the table in the far corner of the room.

“Anyway, welcome back to Fallstar Academy for those who have already been here, and welcome to every new student! Why don’t the new students stand up?” he directed.

I eagerly stood up, excited to see who else was new in the class. Four boys stood up and, of course, Miss Mean. I looked around the room for any other girls, but there was no one else.

“What?” I whispered. Even Meanie looked surprised. I knew that there were a lot of 7th grade new girls. My parents had specifically emailed the school to please put me in a homeroom with as many new girls as possible. This was definitely not what they meant.

“Great! Could you all tell us your names?”

I found out that the four boys were named Andy, Roy, Carlo, and Brooks. Most importantly and shockingly, I learned that the Queen of Mean’s real name was Kitty. I guess the name doesn’t always suit the personality. The rest of the homeroom flew by, full of technical stuff, and all of a sudden we were off to the second period. Apparently homeroom was usually just 10 minutes, not our entire first period, but the first day of school was different.

—--- —--- —---- —---

After stumbling into my French class about ten minutes too late and earning a glare from my French teacher (so much for first impressions), I was sitting in the seat closest to the window as our teacher, Ms. Vilusius encouraged us to take notes. Some of the kids in the class seemed half asleep, but despite her immediate dislike for me, I liked her teaching style. She was young and wore a long flowery dress with her long blond hair hanging loose behind her. She moved around the room with purpose, as though she belonged there. Though not afraid to put her students in their place, she interacted with us and tried to make the lesson fun.

“Can anybody here tell me the conjugation of the verb eat in the first person?” Her voice had a slight french accent, and she rolled her r’s even as she spoke English. I raised my hand, excited by the easy opportunity.

“Bea, go ahead.”

Perhaps my favorite thing about her was that she pronounced my name Beh-ah, the correct way (which also happens to be the French way), the first time that she said it. Most people I meet call me Bee, like the insect. It always takes them forever to get it, if they even care enough to try to.

“Je mange.”

“Very good!” She beamed at me and I felt like I redeemed myself from that first impression. I couldn’t help beaming right back.

—---- —-- —--- —---- —----

All too soon the period was over, and the next period passed in a quick blur. It was time for lunch! Nothing could stop my excitement, because I was sure that this was going to be where I finally met my bestie. It was how every movie went, after all. The girl has a bad beginning, the girl feels better and meets a new role model, the girl meets her best friend! I was skipping down the crowded stairs, or trying to, and I could exactly picture the scene in the movie. Once I arrived at the cafeteria, I tried my best to not skip and walk calmly to the food. The screens from this morning seemed even more amplified with food around them, and all the students were walking around as if it was normal. Which, I guess it was. For them anyway. Should I get pasta? Nah, too boring. Salad? Healthy, but gross. Today’s mystery soup? Yeah, full thumbs down. Oooh, chicken and curry. Now that sounds just like it!

“I’ll take the chicken and curry with some rice please,” I asked the cafeteria lady.

“Of course honey! Any veggies with that?” I shook my head. “Alright, here you go!” She handed me my plate of food and I eagerly placed it on my tray. Some people might say that I went a little crazy after that. Lemonade and soda! Crackers and hummus pack! BBQ chips! Grape fruit cup? Ah, why not, just throw it on! By the time that I was done, I was just barely balancing everything that resided on my tray. After paying for all that (I was in for a mouthful about everything I bought later tonight) I confidently stepped out into the cafeteria tables and… froze. I felt a little stupid as I realized that I had put no thought into who to sit with. I had figured that it would just come to me naturally.

Turns out, not really the case. And tables were filling up fast. Every time I saw a girl sitting alone and started towards her, her group of friends slid in and began to chat. Still scouting out the empty cafeteria, I started towards yet another girl and crashed straight into, of all the people in this school, Kitty. I felt it before I saw it. My whole yellow chicken and curry splattered onto my white t-shirt. The plastic cup that the grapes were in flew open and rolled on the floor. My full cup of lemonade went on my upper body, covering it in stickiness. The ends of my hair were immediately soaked by it. The small container of hummus fell face-first onto my brand new jeans. I couldn’t even see what damage Kitty’s food gave to her, because tears were clouding my eyes, hot and in high risk of leaking out. Kitty betrayed any hope I had of the whole cafeteria not turning to us by yelling at the top of her lungs.

“OH. MY GOD. I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID THAT BEA! JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE JEALOUS OF SOMEBODY DOESN”T MEAN THAT YOU CAN RUIN THEIR OUTFIT!!!! THIS TOP ALONE COST ME LIKE 70 DOLLARS, AND NOW IT”S RUINED FOREVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I was so stunned that it took me a minute to comprehend what she said. She was blaming me. For something that was a complete and total accident. Didn’t she see what happened to me? I glanced out at the rest of the cafeteria through my watery eyes and saw that they were all staring at me. Like they believed her. Like they thought that I did something wrong. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed an adult making his way towards us.

“Now, now, what’s going on girls?” he muttered. That was all it took for me to break down. All hope of containing my tears disappeared, and I shakily picked up the only two items of my lunch that didn’t get ruined, the closed soda and the BBQ chips, and ran. I felt everybody’s eyes on me as I escaped through the big double doors of the cafeteria and onto the staircase. I didn’t even know where it was that I was running to until I remembered the library. The last time I was there was orientation day, but I remembered exactly where it was because it made quite the impact. It had huge windows overlooking Manhattan and cute cozy beanbags to sit in. But what made an impression was the books. Rows and rows of books were staked in the high shelves of the library, having everything from Non-fiction to Romance to Horror. It seemed as though they had access to every single book in the world. A Harry-Potter kind of thing.

I stumbled into it, breathing heavily after running up five floors, and yep. Just as Hogwarts worthy as I remembered. I dropped down on a beanbag in the farthest corner of the library, and took deep, shaky breaths. Right away, the comforting scent of old books hit my nose and put me at peace.

I watched high schoolers, either chatting with their friends or studying for some big quiz. I recognized the librarian from orientation, a sweet old lady named Ms. Azze. She puttered around the humongous shelves, stopping once in a while to put a book in its place. No signs of anybody my age though, seeing as everybody was having lunch. For once, I breathed a sigh of relief at the fact that I could have no human interaction. Because the day was not turning out so spectacular, no matter how many times I kept trying to convince myself of it. It was very rare for me to actually give in to negativity, but as I munched on my BBQ chips while hoping that no one would notice that I was eating, I couldn’t help it. I kept trying to be positive and smiley and happy, but this day had drained me. I felt like Joy in that one scene of Inside Out 2. But instead of yelling at my friends, I was breaking down mentally. What I wouldn’t give to actually yell and shout like Joy did though, because it would mean that I had found friends who stayed with me through the hard parts. BBQ chips long forgotten, I let the tears fall quietly this time as I curled up in the beanbag and stared at the view.

“Um, excuse me?” I jolted awake to a small girl with fiery red hair tapping my shoulder. Uh-oh. I can't believe I fell asleep. How long had I slept for? Did I miss period 4? Period 5? Oh my god, is the school day over?!

“What-what time is it?” I managed to croak out groggily. She chuckled in a kind way.

“Relax. You’ve only slept for ten minutes. We still have another ten minutes until the end of break. I just thought that you might want some time to get yourself together before the next period starts.”

I slumped back into the chair in relief. Feeling more awake, I took a second to assess her properly. She had big blue eyes, the clearest blue I had ever seen, a really light blue but somehow super vibrant. She had fair skin that I imagined would sunburn in a matter of seconds, a stark contrast to my still-white but darker Mediterranean tone. She wasn’t as small as I originally thought, and she looked as if she could possibly be my age. Her fiery red hair was the only thing that had stayed exactly the same from my first glance. It fell around her shoulders in messy waves that would have looked terrible on anyone else but somehow worked for her. But the color. I actually had to subtly pinch myself to confirm that I wasn’t making it up, but no. Her color looked as if it could burst into flames any second.

“New student?” She asked, breaking me out of my trance. I felt a small twinge of self-consciousness. Was it really that obvious? I nodded my head.

“Oof. Sucks, I know. Fallstar might be a great school, but despite what the posters say, it isn’t exactly…..welcoming.” She gave me a sympathetic look. All I could do was, like an idiot, nod my head again. Because she said it like she understood, like she had been in my shoes.

“I’m May,” she said, extending her hand.

“Bea.” She proceeded to give me a handshake that almost crushed my innocent hand.

“Nice to meet you. Wanna play a quick round of UNO?” she asked, pointing to the shelf of card games near us.

“Would love to, but just mentioning, I happen to be my family’s unbeaten winner, so watch out.” We laughed, and after that, it was like we couldn’t stop. She kept me laughing uncontrollably for the rest of the period, between the most creative yet obvious cheating methods in UNO and absurd stories, of which I suspected half of were fake. I found out that she was in my grade indeed, just happened to be in a different homeroom, and that, like me, she was a huge theater nerd and went as far as to ask for tickets to a Broadway show for her birthday instead of traditional gifts. After walking back together to our separate homerooms, I felt this huge sense of gratefulness. Maybe it wasn’t certain. Maybe it wasn’t going to last forever. But I didn’t care. Because despite a terrible start, I think I found the perfect bestie for me.

Untitled Document That is Titled for Some Weird Reason. Eleanor Ahn, 12, NY

A talking animal became my best friend. No joke. A TALKING ANIMAL BECAME MY BEST FRIEND!!

It happened last Monday with Isabel when she opened her locker. “OH MY GOSH, MARTIN! THERE IS A NASTY, UGLY, DISGUSTING, STINKY, SLIMY, ABSOLUTELY MORTIFYINGLY GROSS FROG IN MY LOCKER AND HE’S EATING FLIES!” she screamed as she waved her hands up in the air and ran around like she was on fire. Wait, I just realized. She is on fire! The frog spit out a huge fireball at Isabel, making her a big ball of fire dancing around the school hallways.

“OK IZZY, JUST CALM DOWN!” I yelled. “STOP, DROP, AND ROLL!”

She looked around, stopped what she was doing, and dropped to the ground so hard it looked like it hurt, and rolled all over the school hallways like an armadillo. I swear the frog looked a little bit smug as it watched her going crazy trying to put the fire out.

The frog suddenly jumped up and flew with wings I didn’t even know he had and landed on my shoulder.

“Hey, get off of me!’ I yelled. “Go back to whatever freaky place you are from!!!”

“Actually, I’d prefer not to,” he replied with a British accent.

“AHHHH!” I screamed.

“Well, excuse me,” he said as he covered my mouth with his webbed hand, or whatever you call the hands of a frog dragon creature thing that can talk. “AHEM. As I was saying, good sir, I'd prefer not to get off your shoulder,” he yelled over my screaming, “as it’s very comfy and I like this place with you silly humans. How long do you think it will take your friend to notice that the flames I spit at her are harmless and cannot be put out without this!” He held up a lollipop looking thing.

I stopped screaming and cleared my throat. “Woah, is that thing edible?” I asked.

“No! This is the beautifully, expertly-crafted piece of a dragon tear. It took me over 15 years to craft this, and it contains lots of power.”

“Oh. It’s a good thing I didn't eat this.”

Keep in mind that we were in a school hallway with a girl on fire rolling around everywhere, teachers and students gawking at this talking dragon frog, and the nurse trying very hard to help Isabel not be on fire anymore.

I could hear people talking about fire extinguishers and water. Yikes. I could faintly hear a voice calling out my name, but I was so distracted seeing people spray Isabel with fire extinguishers that someone had to slap me in the face in order for me to pay attention.

“Ouch!” I said.

“Stop getting distracted! This is a very serious operation I’m recruiting you to do,” he said.

“Woah.” I gawked at him. Why me? I’m a totally ordinary guy. Why would this creature recruit me to do something?

“So you are going t —”

I interrupted him. “Quick question? What’s your name??”

He looked at me for a second, then replied carefully. “Charles Edward the 4th.”

The World Outside Matisse Priven, 12, NY The stars glistened in the dark night Illuminating my path My hair blows in the wind and I close my eyes I picture warm sunsets and the cold ocean The tall mountains and big trees I can see the reflection of the moon on the ripples of the ocean Under the calming waves of the ocean I see beautiful colors, purple blue and green dancing in my mind swaying back and forth swirling around I can breathe in the fresh salty water and feel the warm summer breeze on my face I open my eyes to the loud beeps of New York City My little get-away has ended and I am back into reality Flashing lights and loud noises But there is still beauty Still kindness in the air Simple things that make home, home

Just Imagine Phuong Mai Pham, 13, Washington, D.C. and you will escape Blood will no longer become a river Flowing around, from you You will simply exist Normal, Peaceful Just imagine and you will be home Love wrapping its arms around you Comforting and warm While hatred constricts and chokes A venomous snake Unfurling its rage, curling and twisting Determined to destroy, to kill But love saves lives Battling the bad Til the bitter end or perhaps a happily ever after. Just imagine and you will reach the stars Aim for the moon, and fly high Gravity will not stop you Barriers will not prevent you The sky’s not the limit Your imagination is a rocket with infinite fuel, always burning furiously To power you.

Moonlight Magdalena Glenn, 13, Washington, D.C.

As the moon shone onto the Chaos Below, terrifying beasts ravaged the lands. There were huge monsters sinking their teeth into helpless mortals, feasting in the night before morning came and they petrified in the sunlight. But before that stony change happened, there was blood being spilled. Most of the creatures above ground had thought they were worthy enough to take on a monster, but almost-inaudible screams could be heard from the unfortunate creatures who hadn’t taken shelter quick enough instead.

Octavia did not care about any of this. They were up in the sky, lounging on the moon that they controlled. Deities didn’t mess with the natural order of things.

“Octavia,” Sideralis mused. “What do you think it would be like in the Chaos Below?” They were the deity of stars, and, funnily enough, companionship. Octavia had known this god for all of their existence.

“I’m reflecting. Don’t talk to me,” Octavia snarled. “And you know we’re not supposed to interfere with the mortals.”

“Ah, yes,” they smirked. “About what, perhaps?”

“The stars, and the sun, and the moon. It’s all so beautiful. And we’re supposed to stay in this place. It’s our place, not one that we should leave.” They looked up at the solace in the stars that surrounded them. The moon sprouted with tiny white flowers, covering its surface in a soft bed. “And the rules are there for a reason.” I can’t leave this forsaken place because of those rules, and Sideralis knows that. They’re trying to get me to admit it. Even if I do, it won’t change that this place is a prison.

“Who makes those rules? Why should we follow them?” Sideralis suddenly flared. “Maybe I do want to break the rules. I’ve been watching flowers grow for centuries and I want something new.” They stood up menacingly and unfurled their long, pointed wings.

“Sideralis, listen to yourself. If any of us go down and interact with any living beings, the mortal realm will crumble,” Octavia growled. “Whimsy is not a reason to —”

“I want to get out of this monotonous cycle!” they cried. Octavia sighed. Their gaze flitted to the anarchy below them. Gods could only appear on the Chaos Below through dreams. Octavia let go of Sideralis’ shoulders, their face disappointed behind their mask. It was clear what they had to do.

“I can’t let you do that.” They weaved their arms in a complex pattern as quick as lightning, forming a powerful binding curse. The magic streaked towards Sideralis, faster than they could react. As it took hold, Octavia felt the powerful magic exit their avatar, leaving an empty feeling behind. Sideralis’ expression flashed to shock for a brief moment, then immediately turned to anger.

“Octavia, I did not deem you a creature who would do such a thing,” Sideralis sneered. “I’ll stay away from your moon. I don’t want anything to do with your prisons and your rules.” They glared at Octavia in pure rage and vanished in a burst of radiance, leaving a slight curl of golden smoke behind. They’ve traveled to the stars, Octavia thought. Where they should have been anyways. Most importantly, they can’t interfere with the Chaos Below. And so, Octavia breathed a sigh of relief, at least, breathed the most that anyone could in the vast nothingness of space. They rested for the rest of the night, regaining the strength taken by the Magic cast.

The thought of their friend’s horrified expression dominated their conscience, though they tried to push it back. Something about what they had done felt… wrong, like it had not been their place to remind them of their position as gods. It had seemed like a good idea at the moment, but looking back on it brought on rare feelings of guilt. Gods weren’t supposed to feel guilty. Then, the dawn came and Octavia slipped out of consciousness. They could not exist during the hours of light, when animals and beasts alike did as they pleased. They had a blurry view of the world, but trying to remember it was as helpful as trying to find a black cat, in a dark room, that wasn’t there.

My Clothes Hannah Dailey, 13, NY I wear my clothes, Same as men And get told I ask for it. In schools In hospitals In homes. Places we’re supposed to feel safe aren’t. The doctor may look at you weird Anyone could. So I cover, So I swathe my body in fabric Piling it all on. And then, I get called a whore.

Silence Hannah Dailey, 13, NY While my parents go to work, I learn how to be silent. Silent in class Silent in lunch Silent in the bathroom But most of all Silent while a person we probably know Walks around our halls with a gun. They never taught us how to run though.

In My Bag Hannah Dailey, 13, NY In my bag are necessities, My phone, my love, and my faithless seeds. I carry six rocks, a stick and a frog, All of which Came from the bog. I also find a vial of tears, collected by me, over the years. Two fish, a dime and year-old slime. Everything is alive at this time. Other things in my bag, Mascara, chapstick, and old shoulder pads. I have a pen that I stole from Her ex, A pack of gum and some chewy latex. I have a picture of Her and Them, From back when we were friends again. Two rings, a needle, a thread and a watch, And a half-sewn glittery sock. The last thing that I have in my bag, Is a hand-grown forest filled with miniature stags.

Monkey Lounge Camilla Leung, 13, NY

I am Mabel the monkey. You guys may not know me, but I am kind of a big deal around here. My friends call me Maybutt, the teachers call me You’ll Never Succeed In Life With Grades That Low, the bullies call me uh… I forgot, but I call myself Mabel. Because that is what I am. Yeah. I’m not the best at, like, writing stuff so bear with me.

When I was born, the doctors told my parents that I was no good and that they should probably just donate me. But my father said, “NO SON OF MINE IS A FAILURE” (he forgot that I was a girl) and jumped out the window to prove his point.

So when I met my two siblings they told my mom that I was no good and that they should probably just donate me, but my dog Charlie said “NO CHIMPANZEE OF MINE IS A FAILURE” (he forgot I was a monkey) and jumped out the window to prove his point.

When I turned a year old, my mom threw this huge party where she invited her friend’s kids. One of my mom’s friends brought a meatloaf, but when she took a look at me, she said I was no good and they should probably just donate me, but my birthday cake said “NO CONSUMER OF MINE IS A FAILURE” (it forgot that I was allergic to cake) and jumped out the window to prove its point. Thankfully, my mom just stuck some candles on the meatloaf and called it a day.

When I was two years old, my mom took me to my first day of daycare. I was a little scared but then I saw the monkey bars and my nerves went away. When I went to the monkey bars, the monkey bars stepped away from me and said that I was no good and they should just donate me, but my mom’s anxiety said “NO CHILD OF MINE IS A FAILURE” (the mokey bars forgot that he originally belonged to my mom’s ex-friend way before I was born) and jumped out the window to prove his point.

When I was three, it was my first ever day of preschool. This time I wasn’t scared because I already had experience from my daycare. My mom told me that I’m going to do great and sent me off. I went into the classroom and saw the neatest little cubby that had the word Mabel written on it. I finally had something I could love and cherish forever. I took off my sparkly glittery

butterfly backpack and hung it on the little white hook that was cleaner than the marble floors of the luxury handbag store I trashed a few days prior. That moment was absolute bliss. But as I was mesmerized by the beauty of the wooden cubby, it said something that I would never forget. It said that I was no good and they should just donate me. However, there was no one to step in to say “NO ______ OF MINE IS A FAILURE” (_____). Nobody stood up for me. So I threw the cubby out the window and ended up getting expelled from preschool. I have no regrets though.

After that incident, some doctors ran some tests and said that I have a tapeworm named Timmy the Seventeenth who was controlling me the whole time. The doctors told my mom that it had to be surgically removed and that it cost 7,000,000 payments of $80,000,000,000. My mom shed a singular tear as she handed over the first payment of $80,000,000,000 in cash, and that's when the money leaned over to me and said that I was no good and they should just donate me. I was about to chop off my mom’s hand holding the cash but then I felt something slip out of my left ear and land on my hand. It looked like an expired sausage that somebody left in their car for quite some time. It started talking and you would never believe it, but he said right to the cash “NO MONKEY OF MINE IS A FAILURE” (he actually identified me correctly!!) and suckerpunched the cash, sending it flying out the window.

“Greetings, I’m Timmy the Seventeenth. Professional mind-controller and professional wrestler at your service.”

Those were words that changed my life for reals this time. Now we are besties! Timmy helps me with my math homework and with bullies, and I give him a place to stay. Inside Charlie’s head! We go on all sorts of adventures together like taking out the trash and climbing on monkey bars! And best of all, Timmy figured out how to bring back my dad, Charlie, my first birthday cake, and my mom’s anxiety back to life, so now we all live together like one big family!

Divya Missed Her Cue Amaya Chugani 13, National

Anjali arrives first, as she always does. She has a thing about needing to be early. She takes a deep breath – the theater smells of old must and opportunity. This recital is her chance to show everyone how much she has been practicing. Her black hair falls in waves below her shoulders as she drops her giant costume bag on the floor. Dust flies everywhere.

Bright spotlights hang from the ceiling, illuminating the designs etched onto the golden pillars. Red lehengas and gold payals are scattered around the floor from earlier dress rehearsals and dupattas are draped on velvet-cushioned seats. Payals jingle as people slowly make their way into the theater holding their costumes. Anticipation for the Bollywood dance recital hangs in the air.

Ishaan and Arav walk in a few minutes later. “I was talking to Maya yesterday and he told me that Rohan kissed Neina,” Ishaan says. Arav nods vigorously, running his hand through his hair.

As they reach Anjali, she starts pulling snacks out of her bag, stacking them up in their arms. Ishaan’s arms wobble under the 8 boxes of Parle-G butter cookies.

“Leave it to Mama Anjali to make sure we’re fed,” Arav chuckles at Anjali’s glare.

“Not funny,” she emphasizes.

“I’m so cooked,” Divya says as she comes up behind Anjali. “I genuinely did not practice at all and I am STARVING.” She grabs a snack from Anjali’s bag.

Arav says, “Anjali brings the snacks, Divya brings the drama, I bring the jokes.”

“And what do I bring?” Ishaan asks, feeling left out.

“Don’t worry, you serve a purpose. Without you, how would we know what’s happening with everyone 24/7?” Arav says.

“Hey!” Ishaan exclaims, offended.

Divya smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It disappears as quickly as it comes.

Divya drops her bag on top of Anjali’s and takes her phone and selfie stick out. Placing it down on the ground, she begs the boys to take one before-recital photo for TikTok.

Ishaan and Arav share a look and shake their heads in sync.

She insists and with much convincing, the boys finally pose for a picture, trying not to roll their eyes. One… two… Ishaan ruffles Arav’s hair just as the camera clicks. Arav reaches over and ruffles his hair back, earning himself a hefty shove.

“Guys!” Anjali’s voice rings out and they quickly stop.

Divya shrugs, giving up on the photo. “This happens every time,” she complains.

Arav sighs and apologizes. “My bad.”

“Yeah Arav, it is your bad,” Ishaan retorts. He doubles over with laughter when Arav side-eyes him.

Divya rubs her temples, looking a little pale. Ishaan asks if she is okay, and she shrugs it off. “Just recital day jitters.”

Ishaan rushes off to say hi to his other friends. After making the rounds, Ishaan comes back to Divya, Anjali, and Arav.

“Lunch is at noon. What’s everyone's lunch plans for today?” Ishaan asks. Divya smiles and says she’s going to get Starbucks, as usual.

“Arav and I are Doordashing.” Anjali says.

Arav exclaims, “Yay, everyone knows I love Doordash!” sarcastically, and everyone laughs. Arav continues, “And hey, if we get food on our costumes, I heard there’s a secret laundry room in the basement. Just don’t tell the director you stained your clothes. She would literally kill you.”

Everyone laughs again. *** “Nachde Ne Saare,” the director's voice rings out, calling the song name. Slowly, people get up and walk to the stage, lifting their costumes to avoid stepping on them.

Everything has gone smoothly so far. The music is playing loudly, everyone’s costumes and hair look great. There is half an hour before the show starts. Everyone is melting under their costumes and needs water. Arav trips on his pants as Anjali grips the railing of the backstage stairs. People cough as the dust coating the floors flies up. Everyone keeps telling themselves, “One more piece to rehearse and then the show starts.”

The director gives the signal to the lighting and music team on the balcony. The music starts and everyone dives right into it, but something just feels wrong.

“Everyone stop. These formations look off.”

The music halts and the silence is deafening.

“We’re missing someone,” the director continues.

The dancers look to their left and right.

Divya isn’t here.

Arav and Anjali lock eyes. She mouths, “Where is she?”

Ishaan looks toward his other friends, asking them if they know where she is. They all shake their heads, apologizing.

“I don’t know where Divya is,” Arav tells the director.

Anjali pulls up her recital spreadsheet, where everything for the day is laid out. She is trying to see if Divya has a job that she might be doing right now.

“Nada.” Her voice rings out in the silence. She rattles off possible places Divya could be, as everyone listens intently.

Anjali’s heart is beating a mile a minute. “Last I saw her, Divya looked worried. It was a little while ago,” she says, but at that moment, she can’t seem to remember why Divya was panicking. The excitement and anticipation in the room turns to fear and worry. Everyone has the same thought in the back of their mind: “What if something happened to her?”

Ishaan and Anjali enter the dressing room, moving around garment bags and heaps of clothes, and checking under tables and behind costume racks – anywhere someone could hide. Ishaan is not crying, but he looks like he wants to. They check the bathrooms, the lobby, and backstage. Nothing.

Arav returns from the basement, shaking his head. Not there either. She has vanished.

Anjali grabs a safety pin from the costume table and starts fidgeting with it, turning it over and over in her hand. It gives her something to do while her mind spirals. Arav taps his foot impatiently. Ishaan paces. Nobody knows what to do next.

“You know, it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop,” Arav says. Everyone smiles weakly. Arav continues to joke around and gets a laugh out of someone. But that person’s laugh cuts off quickly, as the room returns to silence.

Ishaan starts talking to people, using his social connections to try to find Divya. He groans as he walks back over to Anjali and Arav. Shaking his head, he throws his hands up in failure.

Finally, the director calls Divya’s parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Shah, you should come down here – we are having trouble finding Divya.” Arav and a few others sit down as others wander off into the wings searching for Divya.

“I hope she’s not hurt,” Arav says frantically, tapping his foot on the floor. Ishaan paces back and forth. Anjali looks out into the audience, her eyes zeroing in on the untouched snack bag. Divya hasn't asked for snacks in over an hour – that should be a sign. She wonders about Divya. Is she pacing somewhere, screaming for help? Is she crying or in pain?

Mrs. and Mr. Shah arrive and climb up the staircase to the stage, and Ishaan rushes over to help them. It has now been over an hour since anyone has seen Divya. Her parents huddle together in a corner around their phones, repeatedly trying to call her.

Everyone can hear the muffled voice of Divya’s voicemail: “Hi, this is Divya! I’m either at rehearsal with Anjali or I’m just ignoring my phone, so just text me!”

Anjali wants to cry every time she hears her name.

She winces when she pricks herself with her safety pin. The director is calling someone else now. “Yes, my student is missing. She’s fourteen. We need someone to come down here immediately.”

Arav stops making jokes and everyone else stands awkwardly and silently, the worry radiating off of everyone. For the first time that day, they stop expecting Divya to walk through the front doors.

This is real.

ANJALI

Mrs. Shah hurries to Anjali, embracing her. Tears fall from her cheek onto Anjali’s shoulder. She pulls back and grips her shoulders. “Tell me everything,” she says. “From the beginning. I need to know where she is.”

Anjali’s throat feels tight. Her words are a million miles away. Mrs. Shah asks Anjali to tell her everything she did today. And as Anjali tells her, she can barely hear herself speak.

Ishaan joins Anjali as they retrace their steps from the day. Arav rushes off once more to search for Divya.

“Around 9:00 this morning. We were all so happy. We were just chilling – me, Divya, Ishaan, and Arav. Everything was normal.”

Mrs. Shah was listening intently.

“Then, around 9:30, Arav and I were organizing our costumes,” Anjali continues as she fidgets with the safety pin in her hand.

“But then – ” Mrs. Shah looks down at Anjali’s hand and gently takes the safety pin. Anjali is pulled out of her trance and blinks a few times. The hurricane in her mind slowly stops spiraling.

“Then what?” Mrs. Shah asks, soothing her.

Anjali responds, regaining her footing.“Then Divya needed a safety pin. I was trying to help her find one but I was being clumsy and knocked over a bottle of foundation. It spilled all over her lehenga, basically ruining her entire dress.” Mrs. Shah’s breath grows panicked and short.

That’s why she looked panicked, Anjali recalls.

“OK, so you got makeup on Divya’s costume?”

Anjali nods and continues, “Yes, I felt so bad about it. She wasn’t mad at me. But she was worried about her costume. She went to the dressing room to clean it off. She looked really worried because no one wants to mess up their costume on recital day. If it's too big a stain, she might not have even been able to go on stage.”

“What time was this?” Mrs. Shah asks.

“Around 10:30.”

“Are you sure?”

Anjali nods. “I felt bad about the makeup so I went to look for Divya. I wanted to make sure she was okay.” Guilt masks Anjali’s eyes.

“What time was that?” Mrs. Shah pleads.

Anjali racks her brain for an answer, thinking hard. After a long minute, she finally responds, saying: “Around 10:45.” Mrs. Shah nods, running a hand through her hair, rubbing her eyes with her free hand.

Anjali goes on, “I looked everywhere, the dressing rooms, the hallways, backstage. But I didn't find her. I don’t remember exactly when I stopped looking, but I figured she had gone to get Starbucks like she said she would. I ended up watching the rehearsal. When the director called us on stage for the final run-through, everyone was there but Divya. That's when I realized something was really wrong.”

Mrs. Shah comforts her, "You did everything you could." But Anjali knows, deep down, this was all her fault. She just wouldn’t say it.

ISHAAN

Ishaan is fighting the urge to pace as he stands in front of Mrs. Shah and the director as his legs grow numb from standing still. He takes a deep breath, his hands shaking, and lays out his day.

“Around 10:30, I asked Divya for help,” he starts. “My costume ripped and I needed a safety pin.”

Mrs. Shah nods for him to continue.

“I asked Divya to get me one from the dressing room. But she took a really long time.”

"How long do you think it was?" Mrs. Shah asks.

“I don't know. Ten minutes. Maybe twenty. I figured she forgot or something. So I went to find her.”

"And did you find her?" Mrs. Shah asks.

"Yeah. I found her in the hallway. She was trying to clean something off her lehenga. She looked stressed – I mean like super stressed. She asked me if I noticed that her blouse was stained. It was pretty bad, but I didn't want to stress her out even more so I told her not to worry about it."

"And what time was that?"

“Oh, I have a photo on my phone because she wanted to see what the blouse looked like.”

Ishaan races down the stage stairs and pulls his phone out of his backpack.

“The timestamp of the photo is 11:07.”

If he hadn’t asked Divya for a safety pin, she would be with them right now.

“Go grab Arav from the basement,” the director instructs, looking pale. “How could I let this happen?” she whispers, rubbing her eyes.

Ishaan leaves, grateful for an excuse to move, to walk, to do something useful. As he is walking over to the stairs leading to the basement, he trips on a phone. While he is getting back up, he realizes that the phone is Divya’s.

“30 MISSED CALLS” is bolded in red at the top. He runs back to everyone and shows it to Mrs. Shah, before getting Arav from the basement.

ARAV

Arav enters the basement. He had slipped away to search for Divya.

Opening the door to the laundry room, he calls Divya’s name. Silence. He runs his hand through his hair, thinking to himself that if Divya was down here and safe, she would have called his name back.

It feels like he has been looking for hours, but it has probably been just a few minutes. He walks by dusty boxes, old props, and discarded costumes. The basement is cold and damp, and he hears his footsteps echoing against the walls.

He is about to turn back, but that’s when he sees something. The chute – one of those old wooden chutes used to move large loads of laundry down from higher floors. He used this chute earlier in the day to transfer all the props and costumes to the basement. And there they are – piled in a high heap on the floor beneath the chute. Lehengas, chunnis, saris and dandiyas and mutkees.

What if Divya saw him do that and tried to do a TikTok of her going down the chute? What if she had gotten stuck in it? He looks up into the chute, faced with pitch-black darkness. He hears a sound and pauses for a minute, rigid. Someone Divya’s

size could easily get trapped in there.

“Arav?”

“Divya!”

Arav spins around, scared. It’s Ishaan. “Nope, just me, Arav. Did you find anything?”

Arav shakes his head and follows Ishaan through the laundry room door and up the staircase. Once upstairs, Arav joins Anjali and Ishaan in a circle around Mrs. Shah.

“We’re all telling Mrs. Shah about our days and when we last saw Divya,” Anjali informs him.

Mrs. Shah looks at him desperately, tucking her hair behind her ears, hoping his story fills in the blanks. Everyone around him has grown restless and tired. He doesn’t feel like joking around now.

“Most of the morning I was watching the rehearsal. The last time I saw Divya was at about 12:30 in the hallway.”

“Was she OK?”

“She was pretty stressed out, her costume was a mess. I tried to calm her down but she just ran off. So, I just let her be and I did my job.”

Mrs. Shah gives Arav a pointed look so he opens his mouth to explain his job. The director steps in for him. “He was tasked with gathering all the props plus costumes and bringing them down to the basement.”

Arav looks at his phone, scrolling through the rehearsal schedule. “Here it says I was supposed to do it by 1:00 o’clock. So, anyways, I threw them down the chute to the basement. I struggled with it a little, because they were really heavy.” Everyone

gives each other a look, trying to figure out how this helps us find Divya.

Anjali’s eyes widen and her head snaps up. She shrieks with realization and bolts across the theater. Arav gives Ishaan a look. They don't need to say a word. They realize what Anjali already knew. They both jump to their feet and run after Anjali.

DIVYA

Divya lies in the basement, the clothes still covering her shoes. Red and gold sequins embroidered on the costumes reflect on the walls. Clutching her head, she hears her name echoing through the stairwell. It slowly gets louder and less muffled.

Her parents run to her side, grasping her hands and trying to pull her up. They run pretty fast for a couple of old people.

“I just wanted to clean my outfit,” she musters. Her hand flails as she points to the stained lehenga.

Footsteps subside as everyone reaches her and gets to work. People murmur and everyone looks worried. Some people clear a path to the stairs and some help Divya walk. Red and blue lights reflect off the window, illuminating the damp basement. The police that the director called finally arrive.

“Hey Divya... Next time you decide to vanish, leave a note or let us know. Because you really scared some of us,” Arav jokes.

Divya groans in annoyance. “I just remember hearing something…” she winces in pain before continuing, “rumbling in the chute above me, and then everything turned black. I woke up... my head was hurting.”

Anjali explains to the sea of confused faces: “She came down here to use the laundry room. Then when Arav threw the props and costumes down the chute, they hit her head.”

“Why didn’t Arav see her when he came down to check?” Ishaan asks.

“I was hidden under the clothes,” Divya replies this time.

Anjali gives her a hug and wipes her tears, helping her family lead her through the room.

Ishaan daps Arav up. “We found her just in time for the recital!” Ishaan exclaims.

“Divya will be leaving with the ambulance now," Mrs. Shah clarifies.

“What, Mom!” Divya’s voice raises out of protest, “Mom, please. I’m fine.”

She winces. “That wince came at the wrong time.”

Her mom smiles at her but has made up her mind. Divya hands her phone to Ishaan and asks him to record the recital for TikTok. Her family and friends help her get to the stairs.

As Divya lays in a hospital bed, her friends dance at their recital. The sky slowly gets darker and darker, and everyone is smiling, even Divya, for all is right in the world again.

He is stable (You are deep) Lily Boegli, 14, NY

Seoyeon Jisung’s and my relationship is perfect. At least, that's what everyone thinks. My image is extremely important. I can't mess up at all. Me being his girlfriend has helped both our images, even if there's a lot of hate that comes with it. After being the MC on KBS Music Bank with Jisung we obviously got shipped together, and that kind of prompted our relationship to start.

Jisung is very handsome. I'm lucky to have him. But I don't know if I really want this. I'm happy and want to be with him, but it just doesn't feel right. I don't know if I've ever been attracted to someone. I've ended my first few relationships for one reason or another, because yes, I’ve been happy, but it's never felt right. Maybe I just haven't dated the right person yet.

I prefer friendships over relationships. I think a bond between someone you really care about just feels and is different from a real relationship. I feel more love towards some of my friends than I do my boyfriends, maybe even wanting to kiss them, but… they're just friends.

Because of my image, I feel like leaving him isn't an option. We are too “perfect together” to separate. Staying together would be good for both of us. It's stable. He is stable. Leaving him or us separating would most likely lead to either or both of us being hated even more than we are right now. But I need to leave him. It's either my image or my mental health that takes the fall.

I think – know I like guys, but sometimes I feel like I like girls. But, I don't think I do. I just like their company better and it's normal to want to explore.

At night, while going to bed, I always think about Minseo. I shouldn't, because we aren't friends anymore. Getting close when we were practicing for our MAMA 2022 performance was the best thing I'd ever experienced in a friendship. I got so close to her throughout that.

The day of the performance, though. The look we shared.

I felt like it was mutual. The way we liked each other. Maybe it was just friendly, maybe it was something more. I wanted it to mean more in that moment, but looking back, I know it's wrong. I know I don't feel that way towards her because I never have for a girl, and that's not my brand and not for me. Maybe I've had crushes on girls, but I didn't feel the same way about her as I have with guys, so I don’t even know if it was.

The thing is, it's not even like the relationship is perfect in the first place. It's not just a one-sided off-ness about the relationship, I feel like he isn't perfect in the relationship in the same way that I'm not. He doesn't talk to me or treat me like he does others, I'm not getting as much attention or affection as his members. I understand I haven't known him for a long time, but I feel like I’m not someone he wants.

And the bad thing is, I'm okay with that.

Minseo Being gay in the industry isn't really a problem unless no fans know. There are a lot of lesbian, bi, etc. idols in the industry, and girls in general, so it's not like there's a lack of girls I could like or be with but…

Sometimes I mourn Seoyeon’s and my friendship. I don't really know what happened to us. Once she got with Jisung, I guess she just forgot to reach back out. I think it's stupid now, but I thought we had something. I never asked, but I should have assumed she was straight.

But it didn't feel that way at MAMA 2022.

I hate to say it but I miss her, even as a friend. She loved me like no other when we were close, but I guess it was just friendly. I don't know. I feel like I end up comparing them all to my friendship with Seoyeon. It felt deeper than a friendship. I liked her. That friendship was everything to me, even with it being short.

Our friendship started with the collab stage, us getting close just from doing the rehearsals together. We bonded over being the only people who could speak English. She learned it in school, and I'm Australian.

That wasn't our only common trait. We had more in common than just both being idols. We had the same taste in music, bonded over what our families were like, and our personalities were pretty similar as well.

We were just really compatible.

When you’re friends with someone for a day, even less, you don't ask them, “Hey, are you into girls?” because it's just something you don't do. I didn't want to assume, but a lot of idols were, and I had heard rumors of her and Dayoung before, even if it was just fanshipping, so in the back of my mind I thought I had a chance.

Seoyeon is everyone's crush, whether you're a girl, boy. Even if you don't like girls, she's too gorgeous not to like. And I fell into that category, I liked her. Becoming her friend was like something straight out of a fanfiction, and her showing interest in me? Whether it was romantic or not, it was magical. SHE was magical.

Seoyeon After the rest of the group and I leave the music show, I can't help but think about Jisung. I need to talk to him. About his problem or mine, I have no idea, but I'll figure it out. I always do.

I try to distract myself from the anxiety I have about the made-up conversation I will inevitably have with him, and I think back on the music show. My group was up against Danielle's group, and when standing there, Minseo and I locked eyes. I felt something, like how I felt when we were close, a sort of spark. She looked so pretty and I just felt butterflies, butterflies inside me flying so high –

I felt like I was actually in love.

The thing is, I've never felt this way before, at least not for Jisung or any one of my boyfriends.

Am I in love with him?

Am I in love with her?

The group and I arrive at our dorm and I immediately call Jisung without a second thought.

“Seoyeon?”

Oh no. I actually called him. Do I hang up? I don't know what to do. I didn't even think – why did I call him?

“Hello?”

“Oh yeah, hi Jisung,” I reply after I calm my thoughts down from screaming to just quiet enough to talk.

“Why’d you call me?”

“Uhm, I'd like to talk to you about something.”

There’s silence. I guess I have to just say it. “Jisung, I've noticed you've been taking more interest in other… uhm… guys? And it just makes me not feel like you like me.”

“Seoyeon, you know I like you,” he says back, a little unsure and nervous in his tone.

“Also, I just think we aren't compatible in the first place. I don't even know if I like you and I can tell you don't like me.”

I hear him sigh, like I caught him in a lie. There's silence for a bit.

“Jisung?” I say, trying to get an answer or explanation out of him.

“Sorry, sorry.” He pauses. “I didn't really want to accept it myself, but being called out is different.”

“What?” I'm so confused.

“I think I like boys. Not you. Not girls.”

Oh.

Shit.

Wait.

I think I like Minseo. Not him. Not boys.

There's been a lot of contemplating and confusion on this call but after he says that, it feels like every piece of what this call was for, what today was for, what this year, Minseo and my friendship, me becoming an idol, was all for.

“S-Seoyeon..?” he says, quietly.

“Yes?”

“Uhm.”

I process what just happened, my thoughts and his words catching up to me all at once.

“Same,” I say back, too quickly to take it back or think before I speak.

“What?”

“Same.” I double down. He needs to know.

“You like Taeyong too?”

“No – nononono. I don't like you, I don't like guys. I like girls. It's been my problem and I'm blaming it on you and your absence and I'm sorry…” I start tearing up, I don't even know why. Maybe it's the realization that I am gay or that I'm telling someone. Or both.

“Oh,” he says back.

“Yeah.”

“So are we still going to be together? For the public?”

“No, no, I don't want to. I'll talk to my manager about it.”

“Okay. Bye Seoyeon.”

“Bye Jisung.”

I hang up. Holy shit.

Minseo I'm in my bed, scrolling on Tiktok, when I get a call.

From Seoyeon.

I'm surprised, we haven't talked in months. I still answer.

Heeeeeey Minseo,” Seoyeon says, sounding drunk.

“Hello Seoyeon. Are you drunk?” I sound lifeless, drained, like this wasn't some call to make up our friendship but just a dare I’m a part of.

“Nooooo, maybeee. Anyway, I broke up with my boyfriend.”

What? Why would she do that? They were perfect.

“Why?”

“You,” she says back, way too quickly.

“Huh?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes! Are you deaf?”

“No, just, how do I have anything to do with you breaking up with him?”

“Because I didn't want to be with him!”

“What?”

“I want you!” She's shouting, but not because of anger. I hear a smile on her face and tears in her eyes.

I process the words, but they still don't feel real. She left me, even just a friendship, to be with him. Why does she want me? I hear the call disconnect but I don't react. I just stare forward.

What?

Researchers and Mutations Alma Metlitsky, 16, NY

My mother is counting on me. I cannot let her down.

The trees finally come into view as I run. Each breath hurts. My heart is pounding so loud I’m afraid it will give up my location. But all those years practicing have paid off. The shouts behind me are now distant. I can barely hear their words, even with my enhanced hearing. I stop once I reach the first tree trunk, which I know is a mistake. I can hear my mother ’s voice in my head. “Don’t stop! Head into the trees. You're exposed. Stop it. What are you doing?” It is probably a mercy that she cannot see me right now, otherwise she would be furious.

This has always been my biggest mistake. I stop too early, I give in to my exhaustion, I listen to my body when it says it can’t go on any longer. And once I stop running, it becomes a million times harder to start again. I take slow steps forward, inching through the trees, trying to let my breathing recover as quickly as possible. I’ve just stepped foot on the leaves when I hear it. The faintest crunch. Footsteps. Coming from the forest. I thought they were all behind me? I do a quick mental tally of who I saw sparring in the clearing. The Speed boy, the Jumper boy, the Strength girl... Wait. Where was the Vision?

It is only then that I have the good sense to duck. I head into the foliage and hope that there are enough layers of trees and bushes between her and me that even with her sight she can’t see me. My breathing, which had started to calm down, picks back up. I can hear her coming closer, the crunching of the leaves becoming louder and louder. She saw movement, I’m sure. She wants to know what it was.

I just pray that she won’t be someone I know. That our unfortunate town won’t have a casualty this week even if I make it back. I hold one of my daggers closer, suddenly grateful for their familiarity. When I was first handed them, I felt like they were only a sad reminder of the next few days. Now, I am just glad I chose them.

I was given many options to choose from. Mother always wanted me to choose a sword. She told me it was the most useful of the options I would be given. I always suspected that she wanted, at times, the chance to compete, to choose a sword and fight herself. Of course, she didn’t want it enough to give herself up. Especially not at 16, especially since she wasn’t dumb enough to believe she could win. Especially not as a Listener.

I was never good at swordfighting, though, and I wasn’t about to base my life off of my mother ’s wishful thinking. To be fair, I was never particularly gifted with any weapon, I was just naturally a bit better at daggers than swords. My precision and speed came with training. Lots and lots of training.

Then she comes into my line of sight. We see each other for the first time. I quickly breathe a sigh of relief, I don’t know her. She’s just a random girl my age who was as unlucky as I was. But that won’t make this any easier. She must see me through the foliage. She’s a Vision, she could see me from ten trees away. But she wasn’t trained the way I was, well, probably not. That buys me a second. A second before she charges at me and runs me through with whatever weapon she chose. And in that second I spring up, close one eye for accuracy, and throw my dagger with no hesitation.

Well, that’s not exactly true. It will look like no hesitation to her, and to whoever ’s watching, if they really do have cameras in here (one of my mother ’s many theories), but in reality, I waited. I calmed my nerves, and I channeled my mother. “Just like in practice, Juli. Just like in practice.”

But it’s not practice, Mom. This is a real person.

“Which means all she is is one step closer to home.”

I throw the dagger.

As it flies through the air, I remember everything that led up to this moment. I remember at four years old, my mother telling her story. “I became a Listener early, Julia. Too early for them,” she told me.

“Who are ‘them?’” I remember asking back. She told me an easier version then.

She left out the generations of forgotten victims. She didn’t tell me that for centuries, the families had no idea what had happened to their children, until one of the winners escaped and leaked everything, forcing them to change how everything worked. She didn’t tell me that the purpose of the experiment was for the Shrouded Researchers, as they like to be called, to find information about the mutations. Which ones are the best in quick situations, which are the strongest, which would be most useful in combat strategies.

All she said was this: “‘Them’ are the people who take 5 of the Major Mutations when they turn 16, and only one is ever seen again.”

“What happens to the others?”

“They die, Julia,” she said coldly, turning away to make dinner. I didn’t fall asleep for a very long time that night.

I didn’t bring it up again until I was five. “What are the Major Mutations?” I asked her randomly one day.

She looked up at me, and for a second I saw long shadows under her eyes. “The Mutations that would be useful in combat situations, Juli. Super hearing, super speed, flight. Mutations like glowing or food conjuring just aren’t important to the Shrouded Researchers.”

It was the first time I heard the name. I filed it away to ponder over in the future, but I had more important questions to ask at that moment. “How do they know if you're a Major Mutation?”

“They do a test, Julia,” my mother told me, suddenly tired.

“Were you tested?” I asked her earnestly.

“No.” She looked away. “My hearing came in early, so I hid when they were testing people. I was lucky. They missed me.”

“Will I be tested?” I asked suddenly, the thought just occurring to me. I looked up at her, scared for the first time. She tensed up and walked away. I didn’t get an answer until much later.

At six, she tested me herself. It was a modified version of what they would later do, since their procedures were secret, but there were rumors floating around. Rumors of children stuck in high places and forced to find a way down. Rumors that the Mutations could be triggered in high-stress situations with no way to hide them. My mother did everything she could think of. The third test worked. I could suddenly hear leaves rustling in trees nowhere near our half-acre house. I didn’t like the new sensations. I wanted them to stop. But when I looked to my mother for comfort, all I found in her expression was horror.

At seven, the training started. I held a dagger for the first time. I asked her once, “Why can’t I just hide? Like you did?”

“I was lucky, Juli. They did not notice I was gone. But that was a half-formed plan made by a terrified fifteen-year-old. With you, we have time. We don’t have to risk it. And maybe you won’t get picked. Maybe there will be so many Major Mutations your year that they will look right over you.” But she didn’t seem sure of that. To me, 15 seemed like a perfectly respectable age to be making those kinds of decisions, though, and so I looked down at my dagger in confusion and didn’t speak again for the rest of the day, lost in my head.

At nine, I could confidently hit bull’s eyes every time. My mother smiled and gave me a hug. Then she moved on to moving targets.

At 10, she told me everything she thought was necessary for me to know. She couldn’t afford to sugarcoat the truth anymore. I looked up at her in confusion. “But why doesn’t the government do anything? Why do they let four children die each year?”

My mother just shook her head. I know now she was wishing she could still have my naivety. “The government can’t do anything, Juli,” she told me with the certainty of an adult who had lost hope in the world. She ruffled my head sadly. “And even if they could, they wouldn’t be able to even find them. Trust me, parents have searched for their lost children for years. Once they take you, you’re out of the government’s control. You belong to them.”

I went back to throwing daggers. It was easier than accepting my mother ’s words.

At twelve, I finally went to a library to understand the parts my mother either hadn’t thought were necessary or couldn’t bring herself to tell me. I checked out a book called The Shrouded Researchers. I must have spent hours going through those pages over and over again. From that book, I found out about how the winner ’s entire lineage – their children, and their children’s children, and so on – are safe from being picked. Apparently the genes are too similar to make good test subjects. I learned that in the years before a winner escaped and told everyone what was happening, they weren’t returned to their families, they kept being test subjects in labs. They got the pleasure of staying alive just to be lab rats. However, that also meant, I learned, that people used to be taken every five years. Now they needed test subjects every year, since they had to return the winners to the families.

The most important thing I learned from that book was the data about the winners. I learned that every Major Mutation had at least one winner some year, except for the Listeners. The most interesting part, the author of the book had explained with enthusiasm, was that more Listeners were selected than any other Mutation. Almost every year, there was a Listener. When someone was found to be one, they were basically guaranteed to be chosen, and then they were guaranteed to die. The going theory was that the Researchers were incredibly interested in why Listeners never won, even more than they were interested in any other Mutation.

I recalled my mother ’s words from years before. “Maybe you won’t get picked. Maybe there will be so many Major Mutations your year that they will look right over you.” An absolute lie. That bothered me for a long time, that my mother had lied to me.

Then, I was fifteen. It was nighttime, about five months after my birthday. It was a random day in June. No one ever knows when they will come each year, but everyone knows once they’ve been here. Empty classrooms and quiet streets, every parent with a child the right age praying that their child will be normal, that their child will come back to them. I had seen it happen fourteen times by then. With any luck, I will see it happen again.

As silently as it could, a truck rolled up to my street. My mother and I, however, could hear it with perfect clarity. As I looked over at her with fear in both our eyes, I wanted to tell her so many things. Don’t let them take me, I wanted to tell her. Put up a fight. But that only leads to a dead body, and I would still be taken.

It happens often enough, mothers and fathers trying to protect their children, and in the end, the children are still gone. Kids have started to open the door themselves, just to protect their parents from having to step aside and watch as the minor is pushed into that dark car and tied up. Personally, I think that the Researchers like it better when the parents open the door. I think that it’s another part of the twisted experiment. Which parents will struggle, which parents will look away, which parents will try and fail to look away, and which parents will force themselves to watch.

When it was my turn, I opened the door. I stood up once we heard that car and pushed her out of the room as quickly as I could. No last words and no goodbyes. Not to protect my mother from having to let me go, but because to have them look at her might have been too dangerous. Even if it’s silly, there was a part of me afraid that they would know, just by seeing her, that she got away all those years ago.

So I went willingly into the dark van without looking back at my mother or hugging her one last time. But as I was being tied up, I saw her looking out the window at me, tears streaming down her face, hand over her mouth. Look away! I wanted to tell her. But she wouldn’t. She forced herself to watch.

That might have been the last time I saw my mother.

I was tested by a Researcher who pushed me into a room with no light and no sound. Once the door closed, though, bright lights filled the room to an almost blinding degree. I winced, but it was over as soon as it started. Next, the room turned entirely. This was actually one my mother used to test me all those years ago. I fell over as the ground beneath me turned into a wall, and the walls became ground. Then, the sound filled the room. I could tell, because my ears had become used to hearing everything, that it was actually a moderate sound. It is the sound that a microphone makes when touched. It was not a pleasant sound, but it was manageable if you are not a Listener. Me, I fell to the ground and screamed without meaning to, covering my ears as best I could. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the Researcher rushed in immediately. I looked up at him and he smiled. His teeth were white.

“A Listener!” he tells me, as if I couldn’t have guessed. “You will make the perfect addition to this year's selection.”

Sixteen years old. I am here, flinging my dagger, half-hoping it misses. It doesn’t, of course it doesn’t miss. It sticks in her heart without so much as a scream. At least she dies quickly. It is probably very wrong of me to say, but at that moment I feel jealous of her. At least she won’t have to live with the memory of her organs splattering everywhere, of the dagger sinking into her skin as if it were clay, of the sound the metal made when it hit bone. And as I go to retrieve my dagger I know it will be a memory that stays with me until I die. Which might still be soon.

I count my belongings and clean off my dagger as best as I can. Once more channeling my mother, I try to smile. “One down, only four to go. And maybe they’ll kill each other before you can find them!” Her laugh plays in my head, and my heart aches for it.

My mother is counting on me. I will not let her down.

Little Girl Kaija Rodriguez-Spencer, 15, National A little girl gets a doll for christmas She carries it everywhere She tells it stories She swears she’ll love it forever Well then I guess forever is up Because she hasn't held her doll in a long time Or told it stories Instead it’s sitting in a box Thinking about all its past glories When did it happen When did she get so old What happened to the hot cacao they sipped After playing in the cold The little girl isn’t so little anymore She gets ready to go out She curls her lashes She stands in front of her mirror She wants to cry But she's a perseverer So she puts on more makeup And hides who she truly is She straightens her curls Because the approval she wants is his When does it happen When do you go from innocent to not When does it happen When do you go from adorable to thot The girl gets home She misses when she was little When she loved everything And the world was just a big riddle She wants to go back But she can’t So she cries and sits in her demise The little girl inside her slowly dies She doesn't know how to stop it But she knows she’s not ready to say her goodbyes You expect her to fight Because nothing about her life seems right And by the look on her face, well she just might But she dosen’t Because one bad action overrules a million good words And all she wants to feel is as free As all the big beautiful birds

The girl leaves her room She goes to get some water Instead she hears her mom on the phone Complaining about her spoiled daughter So she listens She wants to to intervene But to her mom She’s nothing but a bratty teen Her mom doesn't see it She doesn't get why she's always in a mood She doesn't notice how badly she struggles with food Her mom doesn’t see it Because that insecure girl in front of the mirror Her mom will never be it The girl goes through some old things They're mostly boxes of junk Filled with bath bombs that she never sunk But then she finds something Her old doll I mean it was just a hunk of plastic from the mall So why did she care so much She holds the hunk of plastic Feeling a sense of comfort Like she was safe So she starts talking to it She tells it about her demons How she tries to defeat them But all she ever seems to do is feed em She talks about her mom Because even though the intentions that woman has are good The girl still feels so deeply misunderstood She talks about school Because even though she brings home good grades All the love she had for learning Slowly fades

The girl wonders Will she ever learn to love Or will she spend her life Waiting for her confidence to rise above Because what if the fairytales aren’t right What if there’s no happy ever after What if her future isn’t filled With joy and laughter What if she’s not ready to face it Is that something she can decide Or will her naiveness get stripped from her Like loose sand in a tide The girl looks at the doll Like REALLY looks at the doll And she sees her reflection She sees the little girl And it’s telling her to find her own direction So she listens She realizes that her flaws don’t need corrections She doesn't need to straighten her hair And her skin looks beautiful, even when it’s bare And the truth is she never needed the doll She needed to open a window Instead of staring at an empty wall So she found that window She thought the war was over but really it was just a battle Because outside was a mountain With struggles so deep She could almost drown in So she climbed Because to her it wasn’t just a doll It was a shoulder on which she could always fall And she climbed And as she passed every narrow cleft She realized the little girl inside her never truly left And when she finally reached the top She crashed to the ground Because what she thought was lost Was finally found A little girl got a doll for Christmas She carried it everywhere She told it stories She swore she’d love it forever And she did

Criminals Kaija Rodriguez-Spencer, 15, National Don't be a criminal, they say Stay in school, be smart Live in a pretty house along the bay But let me ask you something Who was Freddy Krueger Or Jeffrery Dahmer Or Ted Bundy Even Jack The Ripper They’re murderers, demons It's not something you say too chipper But you’re missing something It’s pretty obvious Because under all that disgrace, there's a face And it's one of a human But we don't see them in that way Not in the way that we see Harry Truman They’re liars, they’re cheats But don't worry we’ve got em Ladies and gentlemen, stay in your seats They’re in jail, detained Completely stripped of their rights They've failed as people They don't deserve to see the pretty sights So, we blame them We despise them We dehumanize them We demolish them We just say we can't understand them We don’t know if they feel guilt or not But how can you understand what you don't hear How can you comprehend a person you fear What were they thinking We’ll never know Because some emotions are too deep For a test to show Yet still we judge them Then we sit them in a chair And electrocute them Until they’re nothing but dust in the air But how can we do that How can we treat another human in that way Well we shouldn't And that's all I’m gonna say

Dictionary Noah Rave-Meir, 17, NY

You don’t even speak Russian. Your parents don’t speak Russian. By all accounts, you are as far from Russian as can be. So why does this book appear in every dream you have?

It is on the bus seat next to you. On the soft, cotton-candy clouds you run across. In the hands of the shadowy figure, following you. This book finds its way to you.

Why?

It’s coming back to you. I can tell. Those hazy memories in your parents’ room, sitting next to the bookshelves. Why this book? Does it symbolize something to you? But how could it, something so obscure and unrelated to your heritage?

The breakthrough. A slip of paper, torn from a notebook. It had owls on the cover. Not that it matters. You are eleven, maybe twelve. You cannot leave your house – the world is quiet, silently broken. But life moves on. An assignment: Write a note to your future self. You do so. It’s coming back to you, isn’t it? What have you written in this letter to Christmas future?

This dictionary… it persists. You move houses, it comes with you. It is there, in the peripheries of your dream. The act. Now you remember. I can see it in your face. You slip this note into the illegible pages of the heavy book. Constant.

Why haven’t you opened it? It is asking to be explored. It waits for you. In your dreams, in your consciousness.

Open it.

AUTHOR BIOS Magdalena Glenn is an aspiring writer from Washington D.C. They love to play competitive Scrabble, as well as write stories. They mainly write fantasy pieces and hope to publish a book someday

Asha Nundy lives in Bethesda, Maryland. She writes fiction, essays and mystery. She loves reading. Mara is a young girl who lives in Manhattan. She attends the UNIS school and loves reading, writing, and dogs.

Hannah Dailey, 12 at the time of writing this, 13 when results come out, likes writing (duh).

Eleanor Ahn is a Korean individual with a deep love for reading. She loves reading manga, manhwa, and regular books!! She loves K-pop and her top 2 favorite groups are Stray Kids and P1harmony. She’s always getting into crazy situations with her cousin including (and not limited to) getting lost while hiking, somehow getting a tooth chipped from playing laser tag, and binge playing games for hours on end. She loves performing on stage and being a part of productions.

Camilla is a person who writes silly stories. She likes jerboas (look them up!) and watching TV. Did I mention she's funny, too? Amaya Chugani loves reading suspenseful books and draws inspiration from authors who craft intricate plots. A Bollywood dancer for nine years, she weaves her cultural heritage authentically into her writing. When not writing or dancing, she spends her time reading, listening to music, and hanging out with close friends. Lily Boegli is a 14 year old student who is highly intrested in the music industry, creative writing, and the arts. She hopes to work in one of those feilds when she's older. Lily has won many art competitions and takes afterschool activities to expand on her writing and art. She also owns 150+ books, which is what inspired her to start writing.

Matisse is a writer who lives in Brooklyn. She likes listening to music and writing music and poems. She loves watching horror movies and writing scary stories as well. Mai Pham is currently in 7th grade. She loves writing fantasy with thriller elements to add to the fear, suspense, and final twist of events. Being a published writer someday has always been her dream, and she’s working hard to achieve that goal, improving on my skills and technique. Through these poems, she hopes to convey the magical feeling of dreams and the possibilities your imagination can conjure up.

Alma Metlitsky is sixteen years old and lives in New York City. She is an avid reader and a theater kid. Kaija Rodriguez-Spencer Noah Rave-Meir