Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 23

Claire Dulsky *

Just a Little Girl

The sun reflects off the bright blue door to our house. I roll
my eyes as I get out of the car after a long day in class. Nothing like
spending winter break in a class to help prepare me for the HSPT
with a bunch of people I don’t know for four hours. I’m exhausted,
but I smile. I remember Cameron got home yesterday from col-
lege, and I can finally spend some time with him. Excitement races
through me. He hasn’t been home in over a year, and I just miss
having him in the house.
Mom takes her time to get out of the car, absorbed in her
phone, answering another email. I roll my eyes at her, waiting in
front of the door. I look through the window and see our long, dark
brown staircase leading up to the rooms above. I try to see if I can
see Cameron, but he is hiding in his room. The sound of my mom’s
heels on the concrete echoes in my ears. I don’t know why I’m this
excited, I saw him last night. Mom laughs at me as she opens the
door. I smile at her.
The dogs run to the front door, barking at me like I’m an un-
familiar face to them. I rush pass them, through the door, taking off
my shoes and climbing the stairs to put my bag down in my room.

* Claire is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. She loves to dance and sing.
She wishes she was better at sports than she actually is. Enjoys rap and country
music. Doesn’t like pickles, celery, or avocados. Lives for adventures and time
with friends

* “Lean on Me,” Safina Syed (previous page). Safina has always had a passion for
writing, especially poetry. Her passion for poetry started in elementary school. As
she has gotten older, she has discovered how much she enjoys photography and
many different kinds of art. Over the past year, she has taken photos at every oppor-
tunity. Blending writing and photography together has been an amazing experience.

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I run to Cameron’s room. He’s slouched over, eyes fixed on the TV.
I smile at him. His tired eyes look up at me. His long brown hair is
messy and his beard is overgrown. He doesn’t look the same.
He asks “Yes?” like he is expecting that I need something.
Why can’t he just see I just want to spend some time with him?
“What are you watching?” I ask him, hoping he will ease up.
But he doesn’t answer me. He just ignores me how he used to do
when he was living here before he left for college.
“Hello?” I ask him, more aggravated than before.
“This show.” His eyes go back to being fixed on his show,
and he grabs a chip, shoving it in his mouth. I look at him. My heart
sinks. Why is he being so distant?
I know how he sees me. Like I am some 4 year old who just
started elementary school, like a little girl who doesn’t know any-
thing, like I am absolutely clueless.
He just hasn’t been here. He left for college right when I start-
ed to grow up. He wasn’t here for my phase of playing the piano, he
wasn’t here when I found my love for dancing, and wasn’t here when
I started middle school. I’m a different person since he left. He just
doesn’t know me.
The excitement I once had to spend time with my brother
was gone. I didn’t want anything to do with him. He used to want to
spend time with me. He would pick me up from school, take me to
friends’ houses. I would go to his football games and cheer him on.
But he has gotten more distant since high school. I thought now that
I’m older we could connect again, but clearly that’s not the case. I
walk out of the room. Anger overcomes my body. I walk to my room
and look back at him, his eyes still fixed on the TV. That little girl he
sees me as is gone.



53

Charlotte Jett *

Clementine

I almost don’t recognize you when I open the door. I take you
in for a minute, looking you up and down from your freckled face to
the faded laces on your red Converse. It’s comforting, to say the least,
to be in your presence. There’s something nostalgic about it.
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “Hello,” I whisper. You
smile, but it feels different without the silver braces that used to be
there.
“Hi.” You run a hand through your matted hair. It’s shorter
than it was last time I saw you six months ago. “I brought you a gift.”
You bring your other arm up to reveal a small lilac bag, filled to the
brim with striking neon pink tissue paper. You give it to me and it
feels heavy in my hands.
I open the door wider, as a gesture for you to come inside.
Only when you stand inside the door frame is your change in height
noticeable. Unlike when we were younger, you stand a head taller
than me. It almost feels awkward to have to look up at you.
I lead you down my creaky wooden floors, towards the kitch-
en. Sunlight streams in through the open windows that overlook the
tangled garden overrunning my backyard.
“Do you want anything to drink? Tea?” I ask as you look
around the room. After all, it’s been awhile since you’ve been here.
You nod with a grin. “That would be lovely.” I pour some
water into an old teapot, watching from the corner of my eye as you

* Charlotte is an 8th grader who spends most of her time rowing, but when she’s
not, she’s either napping or binging Disney+. She walks her dog when she gets
stressed, and if she could eat one food for the rest of her life, it’d be brownies.

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walk around my kitchen, studying the pictures on the wall. You stop
to stare at one only because you’ve seen it before. We were in grade
school when your mother took it. It was summer, I think. The picture
still hangs in the same rustic wooden frame. The photograph itself is
shiny, one corner is slightly torn covered by a piece of tape.
You smile. “I forgot about this picture.”
“What are you looking at?” I ask, as if I don’t know.
You hum under your breath, my words inaudible to your
ears. “It’s us.” You pause. “The one in my orange tree.”
We look so young. The children in the photo know nothing
but sweet sunshine and golden days. We sat in the old clementine
tree in your backyard. You were leaning into me, your lanky legs
sitting against mine. I’m holding an armful of clementines, ripe and
shiny. My eyes were full of joy, my toothy grin wide.
A silence hangs in the air as you stare over the picture. Your
eyes are fixed as if looking for something you missed. I turn away, I
feel as though it’s almost as if I’m intruding on you. I go to put the
kettle on the stovetop, turning it on to a high simmer. I leave the
stove, and go to stand next to you.
“We were cute kids.” I say. Your eyes dart to me quickly, as if I
startled you. “Yeah,” you say softly, looking away from the picture.
If I try real hard, I can remember that day. Although time has
made it foggy, I can still picture the little details.
The humid afternoon air. The sticky bark of that old tree. I
can almost smell that sweet citrus scent. Your hair was so unruly
back then. It was when your mother still cut it.
“It’s odd to think we were around seven in this photo.” I run
my hands down the fabric of my shirt. You chuckle. Awkward ten-
sion falls over us. You bite your lower lip. I can feel it, how uncom-
fortable you are. To think we were the same children who used to
have sleepovers together and didn’t fall asleep until dawn because
we couldn’t stop talking. Yet now neither of us can find the words to
speak.
I missed you, you know. I really did. Part of me still doesn’t
believe you left. Even though I watched you walk through those

55

airport doors. Listened when you told me you were leaving for
boarding school.
The scream of the teapot shakes us from our pitiful silence.
I run to the stove and pull the pot off. You follow behind me and
watch. Leaning against the kitchen counter, you whistle a tune I
heard on the radio just the other day.
“You know,” you pause your song, “I was wondering how you
like school nowadays?” I pour the steaming water into two mugs.
“It’s fine, I guess,” I say, dunking a tea bag into my cup. “Is
Earl Grey alright?” You nod.
“Do you still paint?” you ask, running your fingers along the
wristband of your watch.
I hand you your mug. “Not as much anymore, but some-
times. I like to watercolor.” You grin.
“You were always such a good artist. I never understood how
someone could be so talented.” I find myself blushing.
“I guess.” I say it with a chuckle. I’m desperate to change the
subject. I hate flattery. “How old is your sister now?” I ask.
“She turns twenty soon, I think.” Light shines in through
the window as we chatter quietly. Your face seems to glow as you
sip your tea. I can’t help but be reminded of the mornings in grade
school. When you would come over early so we could walk together.
It makes me sad. To think I could have had this.
“Do you think,” I run my hands along the handle of my mug,
“that you’ll come back home for school next year?” I ask it softly. I
try to hide whatever emotions may shine through, but I’m hopelessly
anxious to know.
“I don’t think so.” You say it quickly. Without any hesitation.
I know you’re telling the truth, but part of me can’t help but hope
you’re lying.
“You sound so sure.” I say it with a laugh, but my throat is
burning.
“Yeah.” You set your mug down on the counter.
“You know, I kinda wish you had stayed here for school.” The
pleasure of impulse is all too sweet.
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You look at me and for a moment you seem somber. Regret-
ful almost. “I know.” I feel myself begin to blush. I didn’t mean to
guilt you.
I stare down at the tea bag in my mug. “Don’t look at me like
that. You don’t need to worry. I’m alright without you.” I try to smile
but my lips feel tight. And again there it is. That stillness from before.
That sort of silence.
You turn to stare out the windows that hang above the sink.
My stomach folds in sick, twisted knots. It occurs to me how misera-
ble I must seem to you.
“I’m serious, you know,” I say. “I’m okay without you.” I can’t
remember when my voice began to sound so distressed. You grab my
hand, your grip is soft and light.
“I really am sorry I left.” Your eyes stare out as you whisper
your apology to me. I feel my throat begin to choke.
I want to pull away. To yank my hand out of your loose grip.
But I can’t bring myself to do it. I bite my lip and look away from
you. You won’t see me cry. I’ve cried over you enough.
How sickening is the feeling of regret.
I’ve felt it wash over me everyday since you left. Every time
I was reminded of you. It felt so hot and it burned and it melted me
down until I was nothing but a pile of ash.
I’ve heard of heartbreak before. But this somehow feels differ-
ent. It’s the heartbreak of never knowing what would have been. It’s
the heartbreak of crying over memories you don’t have. Memories
you never got the chance to make.
You inhale sharply. “I was never very good at handling guilt. I
wish I could have given you my apology earlier.” Your excuse is weak.
But I don’t want to ask you anything more. I guess I can’t really bear
it. The idea of trying to hold on to someone who’s grown apart from
me is something too heart-wrenching to bear.
“It’s okay. I forgive you.” The words slip from my lips, so light
and airy they seem to flutter. You open your mouth, only to close it.
You squeeze my hand.
“Thank you.”

57

You stay for another few minutes but then leave to go home. I
say goodbye and watch as you walk away. Your red converse seem to
echo on the kitchen tiles.
I hear the door shut, and I stand there for a minute, in a sort
of haze. For some reason, it almost doesn’t feel real. I look around
the room for something to clean, something to do. I spot some-
thing from the corner of my eye, a lilac blur. I grab onto the bag you
brought and sit myself down onto the floor.
I pull away the tissue paper as I look through the gift and I
notice a hint of orange. I grab onto a plastic bag, only to see it’s filled
to the top with clementines. Fresh and vibrant, they smell of citrus
and fond memories. I haven’t eaten the fruit in awhile. I peel one
open and take a bite out of a slice. It isn’t quite as sweet as I remem-
bered.



58

Hannah Delizo *

Butterflies

My vision blurs as I stare down at my empty suitcase, so
many things I wish I could fit into the hollow middle space I used to
use for only clothes or the small pockets on the side filled with trash.
But this time I wasn’t packing for a trip, I’m packing for 4 years of my
life. I wish I could stuff everything into the open mouth of my plum
red suitcase. The stimulating and tart smell of fresh lemon macaron
shells wafting up the stairs from the kitchen where mom made yet
another perfect batch. The sound of dad yelling at the TV during the
last quarter of a football game, his voice filled with excitement and a
hint of uneasiness. But, most importantly, the feeling of giving Con-
nie another stuffed animal even though mom objects. She’s not into
stuffed animals anymore, she has paintings of stupid butterflies now.
Mom scolds me every time she walks into my room and all
my suitcases are empty. But how can I start packing when suitcases
are made for items, not memories? Even with another 2 suitcases, I
still won’t be able to fit what makes up my daily life.
“Hey!” Connie stands at my doorway, snapping me out of
my daze. “Can I have those string lights that you had up?” She asks
as she walks straight past me to rummage through my box of give-
aways.
“They’re not in there,” I say quickly. “I’m bringing them to
my dorm. I still need to pack, so out!” I point to the door, hoping she
doesn’t notice my puffy eyes.

* Hannah is an 8th grader at Central Middle School who enjoys sewing, drawing
and spending quality time with her dog, Shadow. On free weekends, she enjoys
drawing on her iPad, watching Studio Ghibli movies and eating when bored.
Don’t expect to see her eating whipped cream or tomatoes.

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“Fine!” she stomps towards my door then looks over her
shoulder. “Don’t go in my room, I’m doing something and I don’t
want to be distracted.”
“I don’t care!” I yell towards her room.
I already know what she’s doing. I saw her in her room a few
minutes ago, painting on a canvas that had replaced her old white
desk. Her back was towards me. I stood there watching her cover a
faint sketch with vibrant paint. She was so sure of every stroke she
made, creating streaks of blue, black, and white. She created a mu-
ral right in front of my eyes. A bright blue butterfly hovering over a
white flower. I thought the butterfly was going to fly right off of the
painting when she stepped back to examine it. She sighs and places it
back onto the canvas, unsatisfied. She picks up her brush again and
starts adding more blue.
That’s when I noticed the box.
A box filled to the brim with stuffed animals. I felt a lump in
my throat when I saw the puffy, soft polar bear I got her for Christ-
mas. The bright orange tiger next to it, reminding me of my first
college visit where they sold the mascot in T-shirts. Those stuffed
animals held memories, meaning. Yet there they were, squished into
a box of giveaways. Her favorite baby pink bunny I had given her
when she learned how to walk had fallen out of the box, forgotten.
I ran to my room before she could see me and shut the door
behind me. My eyes stung with tears, as I sank to the floor, defeated.
Why was I crying? I’ve seen her give away unwanted stuffed animals
before, but never this many, definitely not the bunny. If she’s will-
ing to forget something she’s had for forever, where does that leave
me when I leave in 2 weeks? What if she drops another interest and
completely changes when I come back? That can’t happen.
Now I’m sitting on the floor, staring at a suitcase that still
needs its contents. I look up to see more giveaway and keepsake
boxes filling up my room. Suffused with clothes that are too small, or
pictures mom won’t let me take to my dorm. She tells me that “You
won’t need them, you’ll make more memories over there” then goes
off on a tangent about college parties and drinking. Dad tells me I
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should bring them. He says “Without my pictures, I wouldn’t re-
member anything from my childhood,” which never really helps.
I pick up one of the pictures inside one of the boxes. It’s a
picture of Connie and me in a polka-dot inflatable pool. Even with
water splashing everywhere, I can still make out a drenched pink
bunny right next to Connie. Her hair was a lot more curly then, even
when wet, it could still hold. But then I saw myself. I never realized
how much lighter my hair has gotten and how long it is now. Under
that, was a picture ornament of me and our 14-year-old dog, Opie,
who died when I turned 5. I don’t really remember his death, just the
feelings. My hair was by my shoulders then, and my eyes were more
hazel.
There’s another picture that mom told me to put in this keep-
away box, a picture of the day after Connie was born and I got to
hold her. In the back, mom had a nervous look on her face like I was
about to drop Connie. That was around the time I liked braiding my
hair since mom wasn’t home to do it for me. I had a big grin on my
face, not towards the camera but to Connie who had fallen asleep,
wrapped in a hospital blanket with a relaxed look on her face.
I get up from my spot on my fluffy pink carpet, take the pic-
ture and carefully place it onto my desk.
There’s a knock at my door. As soon as I open it I see a canvas
placed on the floor. As I bring it closer to my eyes I see the blue and
black streaks. It was the butterfly painting. I close my door and no-
tice the white flower had now become a peony, mom’s favorite flower.
There’s a bright pink post-it note on the back, with Connie’s messy
handwriting.
You seemed cranky this morning so I painted you a butterfly.
They symbolize change, at least that’s what Mrs. Octavia says. Any-
ways hope you like it.
I smile, place it down into my empty suitcase and start fold-
ing my clothes to add to it.

61

Megan Wilson *

Rain

Your hand grips tightly on to Mother’s. A stream of gleaming
tears runs down her cheek, her once bright eyes now full of pain. Fa-
ther paces around your hospital room, fidgeting with a small figurine
in his hand. It’s your lucky blue elephant. I can remember you telling
me you run your fingers through the creases on its face when you get
anxious.
Hazy noise comes from behind the blue door plastered with
pictures of cartoon characters. I am not able to make out any words
because my mind is spinning with thousands of thoughts. The noise
gets louder, and two nurses dressed in thin blue scrubs let themselves
in. My heart raced. Why are they here? They offer you hospital food
but you don’t want it. They leave it next to you and walk away.
You are surrounded by lots of hospital equipment, the most
I’ve never seen before. Tubes and needles that do all sorts of things.
I walked over to you, shifting my weight onto my toes to keep from
waking you up. I didn’t know if you felt like talking, so I said noth-
ing. Then your heavy eyelids lift open, slowly and gently. You looked
up at me, your pupils full and your eyes bright. You smile at me and
close them again. And they don’t open back up.
This is my last memory of our family together, though I wish
it wasn’t.
I feel someone place their hand on my shoulder from behind.
When I turn around, I see that I’m back home, a smile fills your face

* Megan is an 8th Grader at Central Middle School. Her favorite hobbies consist of
dancing, baking, and volunteering at animals shelters. She loves fostering dogs and
finding them new homes. Spending time with her friends is another thing she likes
to do in her free time.

62

as you look down at me. “You’re it!” You laugh, sprinting away before
I have a chance to take it all in. I turn around and eagerly run after
you, your feet stomping on the floor for every step you take. The
sound of laughter fills the whole house. You dash around the corner
and I try to keep up, reaching out to tag you back. Our parents sit at
the table watching us, their laughter mixing with ours and bouncing
off the walls. You run up the stairs. “Betcha can’t get me!” You call,
leaning over the railing. I hop up the stairs after you. You laugh at the
way my hair bounces as I hit the floor.
“Get back here!” I call, reaching out to you. But I can’t get
there no matter how hard I try.
You aren’t moving, but every time I come closer to you it seems as
though you are farther away.

–––
I went back to school today for the first time since you died.
I put on a fake smile and pretended I was okay. I did it for Mom and
Dad. I did it for you. I know it’s what you would have wanted me to
do.
I took the bus alone; something I’ve never done before. You
were the only person I had to sit next to, so I sat alone. I peered out
the window for most of the ride, blurs of trees and fields were all
I was able to make out through the windows smeared in dirt and
handprints.
My classmates’ eyes were all set on me as I entered the room.
I stared at the ground, avoiding each of them as I carefully wove my
way through the desks to my spot in the back of the class. I gently set
down my stuff and pretended like I didn’t notice them all turn back
to look at me, whispering to the people around them. Their stares felt
like lasers, burning like fresh bug bites. The bright classroom walls
filled with colorful posters and artwork seemed to be closing in
on me. I didn’t want to be here, but I knew there was no way out.
“Hey, Noah!” I heard an unfamiliar voice coming from above
my desk. I looked up and saw a girl who I’d recognized, yet never

63

spoken to. “Hey, why haven’t you been at school lately?” She asked.
My face burned and I felt it changing from its natural pale shade to a
bright, blazing red. More stares from people around. They were won-
dering the same thing. She turned her head, smiling as she looked
to her friends who watched with gleaming, curious eyes. Her hands
were still pressed on my desk as she leaned into it to bring her face
close to mine.
“Um,” I said, flustered. I felt my eyes welling up with tears.
Don’t do it, I thought to myself. I didn’t want to cry at school, espe-
cially on my first day back.
“That’s enough!” My teacher called out before I had a chance
to say anything more to the girl. “Kayla, back to your seat,” she
called. The girl turned to me, glared, and with a sharp pivot she
strutted back to her desk.
When I got home from school I found a tiny blue elephant
figurine sitting on my desk. I immediately recognized that it was
yours. I picked it up, examining each small detail of it. The creases
in its face, the cracks in its pale paint. I don’t know who put it there,
and I don’t know why. But I do know that I was meant to have it.
Then I sat down at my desk and had the idea to write a letter. To you.
I reached for my favorite pen and here I am. My eyes now full of
tears, like rain on my cheeks that used to only appear when you and I
would dance outside in the storms. I miss you, Daniel.
Love,
Your brother Noah.

* “Colors of an Elephant,” Khushi Kolte (opposite page). Khushi loves to write
and make pieces of art. She specially likes painting, and gets painting ideas from
what she sees outside. She uses her own inspiration throughout her artwork.

64



* “Boy Splashing,” Sabine Fuchs. Sabine is a 7th grader in Ross, California, where
she spends her days with a pen or a paintbrush in her hand or her face buried in
a book. When she is not creating, she enjoys sailing across Tomales Bay with the
wind in her hair.

66

Charlotte Podmore *

Grown Up

I’m sitting on the floor, right in the place you used to sit when
you were still here with me. I remember you back against the gray
couch. You used to eat your snack after school and procrastinate on
your homework, asking if you could just watch one more TV show.
I glanced down on you from the kitchen saying “Finish your home-
work first.” Your colorful binders would lie on the floor, loose papers
scattered around them. Now you’re living my memories with your
own family, with the person you love, and your own children sitting
on the carpet eating their snack. Just like you did.
I remember all these moments and the phases you went
through, like the times you didn’t want to talk to me, and the times
you felt like you were all alone. I saw all of those phases, not only the
sad ones, but the happy ones, like when you were excited to go to
school every morning, and when all you wanted to do was talk to me
and hang out with friends. It made me happy to see you thriving.
I remember you asking me “Can you tell me one more
story?”
I would always tell you one more. You would plead and beg
for just one more story. You would try to get the most stories out of
me. I loved that. Everyday was a different snack, your favorite was a
packet of goldfish. I hope when you get this letter you will sit on the
floor with your kids, give them a packet of goldfish, and tell them
these stories. The days you were sick and you would sit there and

* Charlotte is a 14-year-old girl, who loves science and whose desire is to be a
mechanical engineer. Most ofher life is consumed by dance, sleeping, school, and
researching random things about science on the internet.

67

talk to me. The days on the weekend, when you would sit there with
a book in your hands, reading for hours. Soaking up all you could
out of the book and the lesson you could take away, just like what
you did with my stories. In the spot where you sat when we told you
that you were going to be a big brother. That’s the same spot you
would sit when the family had a movie night, when we would watch
Elf on Christmas. Every year, you would sit there a little longer,
until you finished with your homework. You would ask about my
childhood, it would make me wonder how interested you were, and
I would think back to my own childhood, digging up stories from
the past to tell you. Sometimes Dad would come home from work
and see you sitting there, with your face in the computer, typing for
hours.
As you got older, you started applying for colleges, but you
still sat in that one place. Me and dad would watch as you worked
hard. At dinner, you would tell us about what you did that day. Your
curiosity never stopped. When you were younger, you would listen
with your big eyes, and I could tell you never wanted me to stop
talking. Every year, you would become more interested in what you
could take away from my past. I do not remember a day when you
would not come and sit there in that spot on the floor. Some days
you would look out the window when I wouldn’t let you watch TV,
watching the trees sway in the wind. The house got redone when we
had enough money, but you still sat on the carpet with your back
leaning up against the couch. Some days I wondered what you were
learning from these stories, why you were so curious. I told you the
good and the bad stories, the boring and the exciting stories. It didn’t
matter what type, you wanted them all. But look at you now, you
have your own family and you are raising them with a wonderful
wife. I hope you can glance down from the kitchen and tell the sto-
ries I told you and he stories you gathered through your childhood,
your kids sitting on the ground with their small packet of goldfish,
eager for you to say more. While they’re procrastinating on their
homework and all they want to do is watch one more TV show.
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I hope they want to hear these stories just as you wanted to years ago.

Love,
Mom





69

Skye Chan *

Assumed Identical

The sound his fork makes when it collides with the table
makes me jump a little. His eyes are slightly squinted, as the small
light dangling from the ceiling in the dining room only floods his
side of the table with its light. His voice has a repulsive tone when
he repeats, through gritted teeth, my idea of an enjoyable birthday
party. He makes it appear as though a bad idea, one palm covering
his face, his silver ring shimmering from the radiance of the hanging
lamp.
Liam, stop.
Mom defends me, an unfamiliar gesture, an unfamiliar feel-
ing.
“This is what Karissa wants to do for her birthday, Liam.”
It’s hard to tell who says what comes next.
“It’s not just her birthday!”
I say something similar, except the ‘her’ is replaced by the
word ‘my’. The bickering picks up again, like the thundering storms
Liam and I used to hide from when we were younger, when we still
shared a room, him splitting off from me, not the other way around.
“You seriously want to go to an escape room for our birth-
day?!”
“Yes! I have been wanting to since last year! But you chose
what we did last year–”
“Well too bad you didn’t! And I’m glad. You would be utterly

* Skye is an eighth-grader that goes to Central Middle School. In her free time, she
draws both on paper and digitally (but rarely), plays card games with her (step)
brother(s), and watches YouTube videos ranging from nightcore videos to high-
lights from her favorite fandoms.

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incapable of escaping one anyway!”
“I get to choose what we do this year! I had no say in what we
did last year–”
“That’s because your input is never valid!”
“But then why should you be allowed to complain about what
we do this year!?”
Back and forth insults start to escalate from petty comments
to plain insults.
It just goes on.....and on.....and on.
This is a way to release all my pent up anger, Liam having
insulted since I came down to start eating dinner. The moment I sat
down in my seat, one of his various nicknames for me had escaped
his mouth. A force of habit. I can’t seem to remember which one he
had used. It might’ve been “Oopsie,” “Knock-off ”–there’s always the
occasional “Less-than-or-equal-to.” Like the math symbol, but I only
know this now, while Liam has been using this nickname for two
years. Or maybe he called me “Anomaly.” I don’t even know what
that means.
But clearly Liam does.
The bickering continues until Liam, in one smooth stroke,
removes his ring from his slim finger and throws the silver piece of
jewelry onto the ground, finally reaching the peak of his fury.
He’s done with this argument.
Mom and Dad have long since left the table, growing weary
of listening to us argue whenever we decide to see the other. Done
caring for these routine quarrels of ours.
The silver trinket proceeds to roll on the floor. I fall to my
knees and slam it to the ground, cupping it in my hands, my identi-
cal ring visible on my own hand. I turn to return it to Liam, offering
a forgiving grin on my face but...
He’s already gone back to his room.
I feel my face melt into a grimace, and my hand begins to
close around the ring.
I decide my hunger has been fully fulfilled.

71

–––
It’s thundering this morning, and I’m waiting for Liam to
wake up. To return his ring. But I know I’ll have to wait a while.
Thunder continues to crackle outside, raindrops plaster onto the
window in my room. What used to be Liam’s room as well. I jolt ev-
ery time the thunder roars. The sky outside is gray, not a hint that it
will soon develop into a blue one. The weather has decided to match
my mood this early morning. I rest my head on the ledge of the win-
dow, something that would’ve been forbidden by Liam when we were
younger, while we were hiding from the thunder and lightning.
I begin to remember what nights with this kind of weather
were like before. Liam on his bed, jumping up and down, spewing
countless childish insults at the thunder. As if that would do any-
thing. The light that the lightning produced flashed in front of our
window, but Liam would try to protect me while I hid below my cov-
ers, shivering. Those nights were always the coldest to me, the sharp
noises just set the mood that way. If I ever yelped in fear, he would
throw a stuffed animal in my face. Doubling as comfort, and a reason
for me to shut up.
Then the memory of playing in the rain envelopes my
thoughts instead, fading away the thought of thunder, like how a
wave would wash over sand at high tide, cascading against the rocks,
ensuring everything else had been tucked away. I space out, think-
ing about jumping in puddles, water being flung at me, playing with
the worms that inhabited the pools of water at night. I vividly re-
member Liam picking a book on one of our visits to the library. He
had seemed so interested in the insects that the book displayed, the
pictures were so crisp and animated. All the colors and details of the
images meant for people who could process such complexity in the
way the art was illustrated. The memories are so clear to me.
Liam had forced me to play outside in the rain at night so we
could find the insects he had seen, asking for me to join him to no
end until I’d agreed. He promised he’d have flashlights ready so we
could sneak out after dark to splash in the rain. The moon reflected
72

onto the puddles and had glowed the brightest I think I’ve ever seen
it, all the stars visible that night.
I’m snapped out of my period of reminiscence when I hear
footsteps approaching my door. The uneven creaking of the floor-
boards that I had suggested we replace several times is an insult.
SLAM.
Liam flings the door open to the point where it hits the
perpendicular wall, almost slamming back into him, but his fist is al-
ready out to counter it. I’m surprisingly unfazed by the sudden noise.
“Give me my ring.”
“Get it yourself.”
I don’t turn to look at him, still focused on the steady rain.
His hands can be heard messing with my other possessions on
my desk as he shifts everything away from its usual spot, digging
through everything. I assume he’s found it when the shuffling comes
to a stop. He starts to leave, but before he does, I have to ask him.
“How’d you know I had it?”
I finally look at him.
He chuckles and look at me as if I’m totally stupid, which he
probably thinks I am.
“I’m not that oblivious, unlike you.”
Before leaving, he adds, “You always take my things.”
I do not.
He quickly leaves the room, not without closing the door. He
somehow still remembers I hate it when people leave it open.
I extend my arm to admire the ring on my own hand. I can’t
recall a time that it wasn’t nestled around my finger.
Dad’s voice drums on my skull. The memory of when he first
put the rings on our fingers plays back vividly in my head. Identical
rings.
“There’s something indescribable about twins. I’m not sure
what it is, but they have a special bond that always keeps them
bound together. ”
So much for that.
I walk down the hall to have breakfast. The many picture

73

frames that line the walls, almost all only capturing Liam. He’s always
receiving some award.
Liam’s already eating. His bare hands gripping his fork.
I guess we’re just that different.
74

Giselle Burns *

The Woman in the Curtains

The first fork drops off the table. I watch it fall, tumbling
away, leaving a trace of food after every bounce. Mom and Dad’s
piercing voices cut into my already broken heart. They cut deep into
my soul, a dark place filled with nothing, just the ashes of my once
happy self. Their toxic words shatter each other. I never expected it
to get to this point. They yell and accuse and break each other down
until there is nothing left but aggressiveness built up inside of them.
Mom grabs the nearest object, a food-covered spoon, and throws it
across the table. Her eyes pinpoint Dad and there is no sign of regret
in those dark, lifeless pupils. Dad dodges the fork, slamming into the
table. The second fork drops. The table is left trembling, knocking
over the cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes onto the white napkins.
The jello is broken. How could something so flexible break in
a matter of seconds? The crack runs right through the middle of the
sweet strawberry Jello and leaves chunks on the now-colorful table.
I look to Mom, and her hair sits still on her round head, with each
hair tucked into her bun. Some strands of hair stick out like a call for
help from the toxic hairspray. It’s crazy how still her hair is, yet she
is moving every other part of her body with such anger. Then I try
to turn my head to Dad. I remember all of his tattoos. Tattoos with
something representing all his loved ones. I’m still looking for mine.
I can’t seem to turn my head all the way.
The shaking of the table erupts even louder, like an earth-
quake, or a volcano erupting. Without a thought, my feet take me

* Giselle is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. Art is a big passion of hers in all 75
different forms, including music, theater, visual art, and dance.

away, running far away just to be stopped and saved by the nurtur-
ing sound of nature. No falling forks, no sight of parents. The rusted
bench in the front yard freezes my fingertips. They jump from the
bench into my pockets. My fingers dance just for them to find the
pill. Is now the right time? I can’t live with this feeling I’m doing
everything wrong. That it’s all because of me. That my parents don’t
care about me. I take it. It feels nice. My head spins, like always. The
pain is temporary, the right feeling will be forever, I tell myself. I look
to the trees and out to your house, and that’s when I first see you.
Your long, smooth, black hair floats in the wind as if it’s al-
ways light and carried by angels. Your eyes sparkling in the sunlight,
their stunning light grey irises peeking out from the green reflection
of your garden. Your one-of-a-kind periwinkle flowers are a sight for
sore eyes. I see people walking by, their eyebrows raised and mouths
gaping. Your flowers are everywhere, leaving not a spot of exposed
soil. From little sprouts to grown bushes, you’ve watched them all
flourish. Your hands are worked into the earth. They move with such
agility. Your eyes are fixed on the weeds you rip out of the ground.
You have no worries apart from the little plants. I wish I could be
cared for the same way you care for your periwinkles. You’re perfect.
I wish I could grow up to live a life just like you.
God’s first pick, his favorite child.
I look to my reflection in the window. I can’t help but notice
my freckled skin with red impurities sprouting on the surface. I see
my eyes, deep blue like the ocean I long to escape to. My pupils, dark
like the void where stars lay, just to be awakened by night. I focus on
those for a minute. I stare deep into my soul through them. I focus
a little too hard to see your curtains through the filthy glass. Silky
white, I assume, now covered by years of dust that you can never
clean off. The metal bar that they hang on is brown and gray from
days and days of sitting there, used for one purpose only. I look
down to see lifeless dots. The whites of the dots surround a grey ring.
They seem dull. And then I notice, they’re your dots. What happened
to those glimmering beauties that brought life to whatever they
looked at? I realize you’re all gone now, you can never come back.
76



Madeleine Ledford *

Fragile Like You

You can feel the cold through the neck of your puffer coat,
seeping through the layers of your clothing. You feel icy air on your
skin, in your bones and you shiver. You wrap your coat tighter
around you and adjust your hat. You’re engulfed in people, a sea of
colored hats and coats completely surround you. Buildings tower
over you, touching the sky. The wind howls in your face and brings
tears to your eyes. The sky is filled with dull grey clouds, that could
start to cry. Though they are high up in the sky and made of gas, they
still seem fragile to you. Fragile like you are. At any moment you feel
like you could shatter. Imagine the feeling of missing a piece, never
fully complete.
You are freezing and weakened from the icy winds and
crowds of people pushing you along. Where are they taking me?
Are they trying to lead me along? You wonder, and another wave of
gloom washes over you. Your understanding of the people surround-
ing you is nebulous, it’s dim. Where are they going? Do they even see
me? You must, no you need to find something to make yourself al-
right again, but what can you do. Why do I feel this way? It’s search-
ing for something in the dark, for something that’s there, you know
it’s there, but not where you think it is.
You blink, and rub your hands together wakening yourself

* Maddie goes to Central Middle School, where she plays soccer and volleyball. In
her free time she loves to mess around with watercolors and read realistic fiction
novels.

* “The Woman,” Saemi Lock (previous page). Saemi enjoys painting. She looks up
to Pablo Picasso’s artwork, even though she can’t understand everything he paints.
She enjoys watching movies, and her favorite is The Little Prince.

78

from the thoughts in your hazy mind. You again realize you’re sur-
rounded by people, and the thought that they all know you’re there
startles you. It makes you feel exposed, and reminds you there is
nothing you can do to change yourself, and you hate that. Everyone
passing by looks untroubled, like they know where they’re headed.
They probably don’t worry that much, and probably feel normal, just
like they are, normal, and they fit in with the crowd. I wonder if they
see right through me.
Your head starts to spin and for a second you can’t see any-
thing clearly, only the shapes and colors of people you are drowning
in, like the thoughts constantly consuming you. It all is almost too
much. You fall to pieces on the nearest bench along the sidewalk.
You tilt your head back and close your eyes and breathe in, and out.
A gust of wind hits your face and your eyes fly open at the reminder
you’re still here in the cold. With your head still tilted back, you look
at the sky and see the now dampened grey clouds. Not anymore do
they look fragile, now they seem almost pleasant. You spot a dark
smudge of a pigeon flying through the new sky and you wish you
could trade places with it, far away from the thought of how broken
you are.
Instead, you prop your head upright and move back into the
abyss of people and continue to let them press you forward, for now
you will just have to say on the ground and be you.

79

Zofia Pina *

Reprogrammed

The Robot comes home, his eyes square and flat, accustomed
to the computer screens they lock onto day after day. His fingers have
become like rectangles, shaped by constant keyboards underneath
his fingertips. His legs are scrawny, and he has one pronounced vein
pulsing in the middle of his forehead. The Robot sets down his hefty
briefcase as he sulks to the massive kitchen, furnished with mar-
ble countertops, spiderwebs woven in its cabinets. He finds his fuel
awaiting him, his parched lips longing for the notorious happiness it
brings. Although for a small while, it satisfies The Robot and briefly
rids him of his workplace and from the crater in his heart.
He stumbles to his trophy case and admires his treasures.
The 2004 award for Chigaco’s Wealthiest Businessmen, but only 3rd
place, he scoffs and resists the urge to knock the bronze prize to the
cold, wood flooring. The thick, black fuel swirls in his glass as he
takes another swig. Putting aside the thought, he sees what he came
over here for. Years upon years of awards of excellence for his hard-
work and dedication to his company. Diplomas, prizes, tokens of his
immense wealth and success.
He travels down his glorious hallway and stops in his tracks.
He steps into an ordinary bedroom, to bask in the glory of needless
objects like he often does. He has always liked to collect such things–

* 8th grader Zofia loves being artistic. English has always been her favorite subject
because she feels like writing is a way to express her creativity. She loves art, and
in her free time she finds herself painting, usually landscapes. A close second is
baking–she is even starting a business making cakes to raise money for children in
Malawi–but she would say her favorite thing to do is travel and see what the world
has to offer.

80

an overpriced golf set, or a fancy suit for an extravagant celebration.
The gray paint is sheer in places, exposing the pale pink that lay there
once before. The Robot winces, a power outage of emotions running
rampant in his wires. He downs his fuel, and the usual stream of sig-
nals reboot within him. He makes a call to his assistant and demands
the walls be repainted.
“Sir, that room has been repainted 3 times already...” He
shouts at Berry, his usual telling off and blaming the boy.
He continues in this room, for some reason, carefully exam-
ining every crack and crevice. An old closet creaks open, and inside
a tiny pink pair of unused ice skates tumble to the floor. His eyes
glimmer, but no tears fall. Water fries circuits.
He feels the hide that fabricates the skates, a layer of dust
cakes his fingers. He remembers how she traded in her lunch money
for these, how she went without a meal to skate with her father. The
steel shield of The Robot’s heart resists, like it has done for all these
years. He dumps them back into the closet.
Outside the window, the sun has already passed the horizon.
He almost picks up his feet to forget what he’d just seen, to feel the
familiar clicks that lead to such fortune. But he craves to see more, a
bustling life outside of his evergoing cycle of screens and phone calls.
“Pablo’s Tacos” is plastered on the side of that big, red truck.
Pablo pulls the side of the truck down to reveal a rusty ordering
station that clatters and clangs to its position. People crowd to that
truck, like a dog to a bone. They smile from ear to ear, overflow-
ing with love and life as they gather around. The simplicity of each
other’s company enlightens the people of Chicago, their hearts so full
without much to their names. A girl runs to her father, and he scoops
her up into his arms. She flies through the air, her hair blowing and
her skirt ruffling with the wind.
The metal walls of his heart tear down, the weight of a flood
of grief knocking down the barrier. The years of neglect, of growing a
company instead of growing a will to raise her.
The advancing river of water pours down his cheeks, burning
out every circuit and wire. He ached to love her like that, to take back

81

the time.
The Man advances down his spotless hallway. On his way, he
sees that the 1st place prize of Chicago’s Wealthiest Businessman isn’t
all that’s missing from his glorious trophy case. Or his life. He scoops
up those delicate ice skates, and almost makes it out the door.

“Dad...” I leaped with a smile into the kitchen.
He was locked onto that horrible electronic thing that pulls
him in its glowing screen, his face illuminated in the darkness. “I got
something.”
I glanced at the tiny skates in my hands, hoping that today
would be the day. Locked behind my lips were the words that plead
him to go with me.
A spark shone in my heart as he shut the computer, only to
pick up his phone. “Berry–” he started.

The Man wishes the systems will restart, but they’ve finally
been broken. Whirs and hums of numbness flowing through his
veins are muted. His knees wobble, a newfound heart deflates with
despair. The lost hours, the countless days living in a cyber world.
He’s lost her, and an empty void forever broods in his heart. His soul
cries for the missing piece, but I’ve barricaded that opening.
82

Addison Johnson *

The Bubble Popper

I sit at the large dinner table, my four brothers surround-
ing me like a bubble. It’s our own bubble; no one comes in without
an invitation. At the end of the table, Mom’s new husband Jeremey
straightens out his white work shirt. He’s the bubble popper. I guess
we changed the rules because I don’t remember any of my brothers
inviting him.
Mom kisses him on his pale cheek, I quickly look away, try-
ing to hide my disgust. I continue to poke at my unfinished dinner,
scraping the dry ham around my plate, in an attempt to seem like I
finished so I can be excused. Mom is a horrible cook, especially with
holiday meals. Most holidays we’d feast on premade turkey from our
local store downtown. This year Jeremey decided we needed to have
something “fancy.”
As I get older, I don’t feel the excitement that comes with
Christmas. It doesn’t help that the house isn’t blasting with holiday
songs and the tree isn’t filled with our homemade ornaments. Mom
threw them all away, said we needed a fresh start. I feel like most
things have changed since Dad left.
“I’m gonna get ready for bed,” I say while putting my dishes
in the sink.
“Ok, goodnight,” Mom says collecting my brothers’ plates
while they run off to look at the presents again.

* Addison is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. She enjoys playing soccer and
ballet. She does not get the rave about rain and would rather say inside watching
some of her favorite shows, Greys Anatomy or Friends. She also likes spending time
cooking with her twin and older sister.

83

“Goodnight, Jenna,” Jeremey adds, sitting up for a hug good-
night.
I run up the stairs, ignoring him. It’s weird hugging someone
other than Dad, it feels like cheating.
“Jenna!” My mom shouts from downstairs.
I knew she was mad, but it’s been like this for a while. I ig-
nore Jeremey regularly to pass the message through. He still doesn’t
get it. He’s not welcome. I change out of my silky blue dress and put
on a large worn-out t-shirt. It has an eagle with a weird band name
Dad used to listen to. I look down at my baby blue dress with a little
ruffle at the end of the flowy skirt, I got it a week ago just for Christ-
mas dinner. I shuffle my feet across the rug and slip into my empty
bed. My body slides into its perfectly shaped indentation. I
stare at my blank ceiling, thinking back on the day. I miss having
Dad here, he always knew how to build up my excitement for Christ-
mas. As I drift into sleep the house is swallowed by the night
as Mom turns off the last light.

The loud thumps of my brothers echo around the house
snapping me awake. I forgot the importance of the morning, I can
hear their squeals of excitement from across the house.
Jeremey creaks my door open, poking in his square-like face.
“Time to get up, kiddo,” he squeaks.
Kiddo?
Realizing my bed hair is out in the open I pull the covers over
me. “Ok,” I say quickly, my face practically burning.

I change into my Christmas pajamas and brush out my tan-
gled brunette hair, knowing there will be pictures. I hop down the
stairs to see my family getting ready for the big morning. My broth-
ers are crowded around the tree, one shaking each box, the others
tearing off the corners. Jeremey and Mom are sipping their coffee
with large bags resting under their eyes. I slide across my kitchen
tiles, stopping at the oven for my favorite part of Christmas morning,
my mom’s cinnamon buns. The oven is empty and the air lacks the

84

sugary scent.
I walk back to the living room, “Mom, can I help you make
the cinnamon buns?”
“Oh, I’m highly allergic to cinnamon. Sorry, no buns this
year,” Jeremey comments.
I return a glare. A hard, long silence fills the room.
“Mom,” I say annoyed, “We do cinnamon buns every year.”
“Well Jenna, now we have to change it.” She says, giving me
the “look”.
I can’t remember a Christmas morning without cinnamon
rolls, I long for the soft, gooey rolls with glaze melting off the sides.
I don’t know if I should be sad or furious, Jeremey thinks he can just
bust into our family like he owns the place and ruin my favorite part
of the holidays. The bubble popper strikes again.

I sit down in the corner of the room, keeping my distance.
My arrival acts like a signal to let my brothers start tearing presents
open. Mom hands me a small box, wrapped in blue wrapping paper
with a little reindeer. I tear it open finding a gift card.
“Thanks, mom”
“Oh, your father actually got it for you,” Mom said
“Oh.” I stuff it back into the box and place it by my feet. A gift
card, really? This is the one time of the year he could’ve got me any-
thing. Anything but a lousy gift card.
As we continue to open presents the bottom of the tree starts
to look more barren until one is left. I grab a red box and pull off the
glittery silver ribbon. I try to savor each corner as I rip it off, even
though I am old, I still enjoy the excitement that comes with pres-
ents. As I open the box it revealed two tickets. I turn over the paper
and my eyes instantly grow wide.
“Omg Mom, this is the best gift ever!” I screamed “ How did
you know I wanted to go to the concert?”
“I didn’t,” Mom says looking over at Jeremey.
Not him. Please not him.
“I got it for you, Jenna,” he says proudly. “Remember when

85

talking about it on the way to school? I thought we could go togeth-
er.”
“Thanks, Jeremey,” I say while placing the tickets behind me.
Trying to hold back my ginormous smile. I feel bad not getting him
anything in return. I barely remember our conversation at all.
I want to run up to Jeremey and embrace him in a long hug
but it doesn’t work like that. When parents get divorced, there’s hurt
and guilt. When you get remarried It’s even worse. You try to make
it fair, share the kids, share the money, share the happiness. I have
to act like it’s equal, but this present bumped Mom up in the race.
I knew she married someone to last. Not some junkie that ends up
cheating. I sit up from the warm couch and wrap my arms around
him. My heart is beating a slow rhythm as he embraces me. I look
over at my mom, a big smile on her face. A glistening tear runs down
her rosy cheek. My eyes start to feel hot, a tear starts to trickle down
my face as well. This is not a sad tear, but one brought from happi-
ness.
86

Mikaila Miller *

Accept Me

“Slow service, huh?” I said to my father, trying to make it less
awkward then it already was. He stared at me, like he was trying to
read a book with no words. My phone buzzed beside me, a text from
mom.
Give him a chance, it read.
She’s the one who set up this dinner that both of us didn’t
want to go to. I set my phone down, trying to not get bothered by the
text. He swirled his wine glass, staring at me.
“Got somewhere more important to be?” he asked in his deep
voice as he took a sip of wine.
“No, not at all,” I said back to him, scared, frightened. He
reached for the wine and poured more into his empty glass and
looked away. My father, a retired Navy SEAL, tough and a hard man
to crack, stared at my blank face hard. He had tours in the Middle
East when I was younger and missed a lot of my childhood. Now he
sits across from me at the dinner table, pretending that he knows me.
“So...” I said, trying to make conversation with the devil
across from me.
“Ethan, what do you want from me?” he asked sternly.
“What do you mean?” I answered back.
“Well, your mother dragged me to come to this, so it has to
be important,” he answered harshly.
Well it would have been better if you didn’t show up anyways,

* Mikaila goes to Central Middle School. Some of her favorite things to do include
playing volleyball, hanging out with friends, and listening to music. Another fa-
vorite thing of hers is traveling with her family. The last place she traveled with her
family was the Bahamas. She wishes she could play either the piano or the guitar.

87

I wanted to say back to him. I kept quiet. I didn’t answer and just
took another look around for the waitress.
“So is it important or did I come here for no reason?” he
asked, waiting for an answer.
“Whatever Dad, just go home,” I said, laying my head down
low. He looks at me surprised.
“Very well then,” he said as he sat up from his chair, and left
the table without saying another word. I sat there by myself, thinking
about what I had just done. The waitress walked over with the food,
balancing one with the other.
“Hey, are you okay? Where’s your old man?” she asked. She
was a sweet old lady, with a name tag that said “Nancy.”
“It’s been a rough night ma’am,” I said back to her.
“I’m sorry son,” she said back as she set the two plates in front
of me.
88

Claire Dulsky *

The Never-Answered Question

I cover my eyes to shield them from the sun as mom and I
pull into the parking space. Dreading this next hour and a half, I
open the door and step out of the car. I take a deep breath. Be patient,
I say to myself, she will open up, I know it. I pull my shirt down,
covering up the skin that was showing, not giving any reason for my
mom to tell me I’m doing something wrong. I know mom is dread-
ing this just as much as I am because of the questions that she has yet
to answer.
“You ready kiddo?”
I look at her unsurely. “Yep.”
She lets me choose the restaurant like when I was little, so
we’re at California Pizza Kitchen, my favorite. We get seated at a table
for two in a dark corner with a single light hanging above. She smiles
at me, her warm expression making me smile back. I glance down
at my phone, 12:30. There’s too much time. I just want this to end.
I look at her: tall, lean, brown hair, not wearing the necklace dad
gave her anymore, and more engaged with her phone than her own
daughter. She is trying to avoid me, but mostly to avoid the ques-
tions.
I’m less engaged now. Not just with my family, but with my
friends too. Why should I get to know someone and love them just
to have them disappear from my life in a split second. So I don’t talk
anymore because I’m scared to. Scared to get connected. I think my

* Claire is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. She loves to dance and sing. She
wishes she was better at sports than she actually is. Enjoys rap and country music.
Doesn’t like pickles, celery, or avocados. Lives for adventures and time with friends.

89

mom is the same, too. We haven’t spoken much since the accident,
but I don’t know what to say anymore. How can I say anything and
not bring up dad? I have so many questions about what happened
to him. First, he gets in an accident and doesn’t even get a funeral?
Mom won’t let me ask any questions about what happened. Maybe
she’s scared I’ll get too sad, but I want to know about what happened
to my best friend.
The food comes out and I try to eat as fast as I can just to
avoid mom’s eye contact. But I need to seem fine. I need to seem
like I’m not hurting inside. I can’t let her know because I need to be
strong for her. The accident took my dad away from me. There’s no
coming past this. It’s only going to get worse from here.
Mom’s not fine either. I know that. She fidgets with her hands
more than usual now, I hear her crying at night through the walls,
she started working early mornings just to take her mind off things,
and she took down all the photos of dad in the house for awhile
because every time she saw a picture of him she would cry. I can’t
fix the way she feels, even if I try my hardest, because it’s harder to
try and make her happy if I can’t even experience that happiness for
myself.
“Did you see that article about the huge parade that hap-
pened last week?” mom asks me. She looks at me. The first time she
has in a while. Her eyes look at me with the longingness I used to see
when dad was on trips. I know he was the love of her life. I know I
can’t fill that.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yeah, for sure,” I say back. She just smiles. For a second, it is
back to normal. Just for a split second.
The waiter brings us the check and gives us a big smile. Mom
slowly grabs the check from him and smiles back. She pulls out her


* “A Café Window View,” Daphne Hsu (opposite page). Daphne is a 6th grader at
Ralston Middle School who enjoys sketching, watercolor, and digital art. Other than
art, she also likes playing the violin, listening to music, playing badminton, and
sleeping.

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wallet and starts to pay for our food. I want to actually have a con-
versation with her before we leave this restaurant. I want to find out
more about the accident. I need to find out more.
“Do you remember when we used to go to the parades in
town?” I say to her, trying to get her to remember the good memo-
ries. “You would dress me up according to what the parade was and
I wouldn’t complain, even though they were the ugliest costumes I
have ever seen.” I’m hoping for a response, but she just laughs. She
can’t even have a conversation with her daughter. “We would wake
up so early just to experience something we would never see again.”
Still no response. The bright screen distracts her. Her eyes are fixed
on that stupid phone and the check for our meal. “We never got to
go with dad.” Her eyes dart up at me. Only that word can get her
attention. She stares at me, surprised I would even be able to use that
word again.
Mom makes it seem as though she is the only person hurting
over him, but she’s not. He was my best friend. The person I would
tell everything to. I was never close with my mom. She was always
too busy with work, or friends, or dad. But if I had a bad day, felt sick
at school, or forgot homework, I would call him. He was the glue of
this family. The person that kept me from running away and kept
mom from leaving us.
“I remember dad would take me to baseball games with him,”
“Katie, stop,” she says aggressive but quiet so no one can hear.
But I keep going.“He would let me wear his glove–”
“Katie, I’m serious.”
I want her to crack. “And he would put me on his shoulders
so I could see the field and–”
Mom slams her hand on the table,“Katie, stop!”
“Why? Just tell me what happened.” All eyes are on us now,
everyone is looking. I tense up. Mom looks me straight in the eyes,
and the sparkle I once saw is completely gone.
“He’s gone, okay? So stop bringing up things you know will
just hurt us. You can’t do anything right, can you?” Mom throws the
check on the table and grabs her stuff and leaves. I sit there, silent,
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not knowing what to do. I can’t think of anything left to do but cry.
Tears are streaming down my face. I pull my sleeves down over my
hands and wipe the tears from my eyes. I pick up my phone, and
without thinking, I call dad. The usual 3 rings, echo. I haven’t done
this before, calling someone who is dead. I need the reassurance. I
need to know he’s really gone. But this time the ringing stops and a
familiar voice picks up.
“Hello?” It’s dad.

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Collin Liou *

Remember

“I’m sorry.” The most useless words I know. Anyone can be
sorry. Even me. The struggle is what to do about it.
The vase shatters, porcelain shards scattering into my shoes.
So that’s who I am. I break things. Break people.
My mind goes numb to the shards digging into my soles and
drawing blood. To the sorrow when Mom screams at me to stay. To
the anger as I push past her through the doorway and take off into
the night. To the shame as her last plea fades. “I can’t lose you too....”
I need to escape the memories.
The sidewalk moves beneath me, the wind rushes in my ears,
but the black sky remains still. You loved Ama, my brain tells me.
Didn’t you? Don’t you remember running into her arms, filled with joy?
My childhood laugh reverberates. I see my grandmother’s
smile, brighter than the sun, her arms outstretched.
“Don’t you get it? ” I whisper, letting my pace fizzle out. The
aggression in my voice surprises me. “I remember it all. Every single
thing. And now I can’t pay her back.” Can’t apologize. Can’t correct
my mistakes. Can’t live with the shame.
A cold hand closes around my heart. I don’t want to be this
way! I don’t want to run from everyone’s help and stab people after they
help me! Why, oh, why do I run and scream? Why do I ruin everyone I
know?
Ama’s dead voice echoes in my mind. A voice I won’t hear

* Collin is an eighth grader at Central Middle School who most enjoys English and
Mathematics. Tackling challenges are fun if he considers taking them on. He watch-
es comedic talk-show hosts on YouTube, plays piano, viola, table tennis, and chess,
but his favorite thing to do is think about how he should be doing homework.

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again.
“If you run away your whole life, you will end up nowhere.”
Go away. One of my knees crumples.
Remember the park on a day like every other.
Leave me alone. My shoe catches and the ground swings to-
ward my head.
Remember the laughter of children playing.
“No,” I whisper, falling hard.
And my screams at Ama above them all.
Get out of my head!
All I feel is pain; in my legs, skull, and heart. Almost like on
that day...
I grit my teeth and stagger away, fighting back tears. I must
be strong. But the sky decides to cry for me. A slow, refreshing
drizzle at first. I would’ve liked it on most days. But today, I just feel
crushed. It quickly picks up into a maelstrom. My kind of storm.
Stop. There should be a full moon tonight.
My shoe lands in a puddle. Shoot. My foot loses purchase,
swings up, and I crash on my back, the wind knocked out of me. I
wheeze, breaths coming in ragged gasps like a fish out of water.
Gasps like before.
When I was flying off the swing, then wheezing on my back,
knowing I should’ve listened. Ama runs over and kneels, face paint-
ed with worry. “Mistakes must be made to learn,” she says, reaching
toward me.
I’m stunned, but somehow manage to glower at her. She looks
back pointedly. “You can only stand up if you have fallen down.” She
clutches my shoulder.
I flinch back to the present. No. “Get away from me!” I raise a
shaky fist to the sky, having said the same words I screamed to Ama
on that day. I never deserved you. Rocks grind on pavement as I roll
over, and they bite into my side. I’m still numb. I drag my feet to
stumble up and limp away.
My feet take me into darkness. It ripples through my mind,
clouding my judgement, smothering my emotions and soul. But it

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pushes Ama out. So I venture in further.
And everything begins to vanish. The wind fades from my
ears. The jolt in my legs from each step slowly disappears. It’s all—
Pain. The numbness evaporates. A cry escapes my throat. All
of my bones scream in agony as I collapse on the park bench. I just
crashed. No. She’s catching up. Get up, get up! She’s almost—
I freeze, reading the bench engraving: “In loving memory of
Eleanor Shin.” Ama’s already here. “NO!” My eyes brim with tears as
the darkness melts into the past.
Ama is leading me back to the bench, my shock replaced
with fury. I shake her arm off me. We sit down on the same bench.
“That looks bad,” she says hurriedly. “Let me have a look.” She
inspects my leg and the thousand cuts that cover it.
No! I can take care of myself! I don’t need your help!” I
scream. Jerking my legs away, I turn my back to her.
“It looks bad,” she says, voice pained. She gets up and tries
again.
“Get away!” I stand up so fast she flinches. So much pain...
just let her help.
No. I must be strong.
Get out! I squeeze my eyes and shut my mind off. My whole
body trembles, hands forming into fists. “ WHY!” I scream. “Why
here? ” Why why why...so much pain. My feet soak blood into my
shoes from porcelain shards. My bones rattle from the crash. But
mostly, my heart bleeds from my weakness.
Away. You’ll stop hurting if you don’t remember why.
“Let me help,” Ama had said. “Crying isn’t weakness. It shows
your willingness to be open and share your troubles with others.
Accepting help isn’t weak. It shows that you know when you can’t do
something alone, and that you can trust others. But not taking care
of yourself when you are hurt for fear of showing weakness is not
strength.”
“GET OUT OF MY HEAD!” Waterfalls cascade down from
my eyes, onto my cheeks, and to the ground.
I’m already running like before, on the same muddy field.

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Running in two worlds, bleeding out while I refuse to accept help.
Refuse to be kind. Refuse to be strong.
Two winds rush in four ears. Four feet pound on two fields.
But one mind flees from it all. Ama calls out to me.
“Running...it won’t get you what you want. If you run away
your whole life, you will end up nowhere. I know you want to hate
me. I know you want to be strong.”
Suddenly, I trip on stone steps. So much pain...my leg... I
glance around. Ama’s front porch. No.
“But you don’t know what strength is,” Ama continues.
Her voice...it’s clear. Soft. Kind. Beautiful. It wasn’t like this before.
“Strength is not pretending that you are not hurt. Strength is not
refusing the help of others. Strength is not running from your strug-
gles.”
I remember running home. That memory cuts off. But Ama
still sings in my mind.
“Strength is the ability to change, the ability to admit you
were wrong before so you can improve now.”
Will you run again?
“Strength is to directly face your struggles to overcome
them.”
Will you make the same mistake?
No. I won’t.
Gritting my teeth, I push one knee beneath me. “I’m sorry,”
I whisper. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I force myself to stand,
and gasp. The fog in my mind clears. I straighten my back, square
my shoulders, and gaze up. The rain stops falling. The moon shines
through a hole in the clouds, full and bright. Shining on me.
I begin picking porcelain out of my shoes.
Two larger shards fall out the size of my thumbnail, each
scrawled with black ink. They used to spell something. It was split
down the middle by me. Broken.
I press the cracks together. Eleanor Shin.
She comes to me.
“I love you,” I whisper.

97





Katherine Silva *

Passed On

I slump down in the seat of Dad’s beat up, dark green Chevy
and draw my knees up to my chest. The sun has just begun to set,
painting the sky with hazy strokes of orange and yellow. I wrap my
sweater tighter around me and sink further into my seat to stay
warm. The weather is in that strange place somewhere between sum-
mer and fall, with warm, sweet air and cool breezes. I gaze out the
cracked windshield as Grandpa and my brother, Jack, walk through
the rows of trees, picking ripe, red apples. Grandpa holds a woven
basket, so full of apples that his hands shake under the weight of it.
He hands it to Jack, who takes it inside to Mom and Grandma, who
are peeling apples for Grandma’s famous apple pie. My mouth waters
just thinking about it.
Grandpa rests against a tree and wipes a bead of sweat from
his forehead as he scans the horizon. His eyes settle on me, sitting
in the truck, and he walks over, his gait meticulous and even. The
passenger door creaks as he pulls it open, and the truck sinks a little
under his weight. He turns to me and gives me a crooked smile that
looks just like Dad’s, his eyes wrinkling at the corners.
“Hey you,” Grandpa says, wiping his hands on his jeans.
He smells familiar, like apples and soil. “I see you found your dad’s
truck.” I nod and tuck my hair behind my ears. Grandpa reaches
under the dash and pulls out a key, worn from years of use.

* Katherine’s life consists mostly of volleyball, with some time for school work. Her
favorite subject at the moment is history. She lives in the Bay Area with her two
parents and an incredibly annoying younger sister.

* “untitled,” Ela Weintraub (previous page). Ela is an 8 foot tall, purple giraffe. Just
kidding! She goes to Central Middle School, in San Carlos, California, and enjoys
creating art, hiking, reading books, and not having to wake up early.

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