That One Summer Neda Ravandi 2/24/2021

It all started with David Redford’s goldfish and the dead body. Davey, ever the patriot, had named him John Fitzgerald, and after six long years of friendship it was decided that a death by toilet would not do him justice, so after hastily written notes were left on our respective kitchen counters, we packed baloney sandwiches, shovels, and a small shoebox in a picnic basket and made the mile-long trek out of town. The girls wore our nicest summer dresses, with long, silk hair ribbons, and the boys wore overalls; it was assumed they’d do the tedious work of digging John Fitzgerald’s grave. The funeral was a somber event, and Davey used up many tissues. It was hot that day, sun beating down on our backs through the thin cotton of our summer clothes, and the ceremony lasted for about fifteen minutes before we grew drowsy with summer warmth and sat down on the grass. After a respectful period of time, during which Davey’s grief had lessened, his brother looked at us.

“Didja hear about the murder?”

“The murder?”

“Mr. Miller,” Robbie said solemnly. “Sheriff Johnson found his body all messed up in the cornfields.”

Murder rarely happened around here, so we perked up at his words. I wondered aloud if

I’d be allowed to write about the case in the Council Grove Republican, but Maggie shrugged.

“Well it’s not much of a mystery, is it? There’s no case for solvin’ if everyone knows who did it.”

Jamie Flynn was an enigma; rumors hung around him like flies. He was tall and lanky at twenty-seven years old, with long, scraggly brown hair and big blue eyes, and an ever-growing collection of Marlboros and Grateful Dead vinyl records, which I knew only because I’d seen

1 him come through my family’s store. A muffled giggle interrupted my thoughts, and I glanced up to see my friends sharing thoughts about our suspected killer.

“Miss Jeanie says he’s a homosexual,” Robbie whispered. Robbie Redford had watery blue eyes and thin hair the color of straw, and two big front teeth that made him look like a rabbit. Molly looked up from her daisy chain and leaned in, pushing her bangs off her forehead.

“I once saw him smokin’ cigarettes off the corner of Mayview and Dale.”

“My mama calls him a hippie.”

“Mister Eddie from across the street says he’s a bad influence,” Maggie chimed in.

“I heard he brings little kids to his house.”

“I heard he kills ‘em.”

“I heard he eats ‘em.”

Josie cleared her throat and looked at us. We all grew quiet. Josie Pickett was a year older than all of us; this age experience commanded respect. “Well,” she said, “my sister heard from

Chuck’s barber’s cousin’s uncle that Jamie Lee Flynn is a communist.” Our eyes grew wide.

“Yep. He went to all those protests back west, in California.”

“I’m not surprised,” Davey sniffed, and various sounds of agreement were made. By the time our discussion finished, it had grown dark, so we packed up our things and headed home, John

Fitzgerald’s passing apparently forgotten. Supper was uneventful, save for a strict warning from my mother to stay away from that damn Jamie Flynn as he was a murderer and a communist, neither of which was good for my health.

The next morning, after washing up, I made my way downstairs. My family owned the corner store, and we lived right above it. I loved our store; the chipped walls were pale yellow with cream-colored trim, and the shelves were piled high with just about everything. A small

2 silver bell rang tinnily as the door opened, and I startled at the sound. The door creaked open, and in walked Jamie Lee Flynn. He was suspiciously polite for a cold-blooded killer, and after receiving an earnest apology when he took too much change, I decided an investigation was underway. As this was a reconnaissance mission, I crept out the back door, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and nearly bumping into Mr. Bradford. Harry Ray Bradford was something of a celebrity. He owned the only bank in town, and appeared sometimes on our color TV. He was tall and handsome, and all the ladies sighed when he walked into church. I was convinced the town was half in love with him. He stood outside, turned away from the store’s back wall with a telephone pressed to his ear. We kept one attached to the back wall of the store in case of emergencies, and Mr. Bradford was speaking into it furiously.

“That was the deal, Johnson. I always keep up my end of the bargain, and I expect my clients to do so as well. Now, I won’t hear about this any longer, dammit. I paid you what you wanted; you got the money. Now keep your mouth shut, you hear me?”

I tiptoed over the telephone line and raced to Jamie’s house, making a quick stop along the way. A lonely oak loomed overhead as I stared over the lawn. Jamie Flynn’s house may have once been grand, but morning glories clung to the crumbling walls, and the grass out front fought a losing battle against red-capped mushrooms and waxy-leaved dandelions. I strode up the steps and rapped on the door. Jamie Flynn peered down at me, and suddenly I wondered why I’d just come to the house of a suspected murderer.

“Good mornin’, Mister Flynn. You left somethin’ at the store,” I said, holding up the cigarettes and waiting for an invitation inside. When none came, I changed tactics.

“Well, Mister, I’ve always wanted to be a journalist.” That was true.

“I went up to meet with the Council Grove Republican on Friday.” That was a half-truth.

3 “And seein’ how there’s a war goin’ on, the Republican wanted me to interview people of the town to get their opinions on it.” That was definitely a lie.

His face brightened.

“Well, sure, Miss June.”

He beckoned me in, and I hesitated. Laughing, he ambled inside. “I don’t bite,” he called over his shoulder. His bare feet padded softly against the shag carpeting and voices crooned faintly from a purple record player.

He settled into a deep plum armchair and gestured to the seat beside him.

“Ask away.”

I gazed at the rich blue walls around us. One side of the room was covered with band posters.

Bob Dylan squinted at me over a cigarette, and Joan Baez beamed next to a guitar, but the most interesting pictures were photographs pinned up next to them: two young men holding hands in front of a brightly painted van, a woman peering into the camera, ring-adorned fingers wrapped around a bouquet of wildflowers, a large group of people brandishing signs, faces frozen in a rallying cry. “What are these?” I asked.

“Those,” he murmured, pointing to the first two, “were taken just last month, at a big festival called Woodstock, and that one was taken in 1965 when we marched on Washington to protest the war.”

“Why, sir? Why do you care so much about Vietnam?”

“Well, my brother cared a lot more than me. He left with a determined smile, proud to serve his country. He came back in a coffin.”

I stayed quiet, unsure of what to say.

“It’s just so violent, all of it. And for what? What’s the point? We were children,” he said darkly.

4 “But there was no point in hitting back. We fought with peace. They were armed with guns, and we were armed with flowers. I’d learned from my brother- hell, we’d all learned, from our brothers, our fathers, our uncles, our sons, everyone who’d fought, that war was not the answer.

So we used kindness. We filled the streets of Washington with our kindness, with our demand for peace. And it was beautiful.”

“You wanna know somethin’ I’ve learned, June?”

I nodded.

“Kindness is like snow- it beautifies everything it covers.”

A peaceful silence settled over us as I mulled over his words.

“Thank you for your time, Mister Flynn.” I stood up to leave, but he held out a hand to stop me.

“You want to be a journalist, correct?”

“Yessir.”

“You ever heard of the Pulitzer Prize?”

“No sir.”

“It’s a very prestigious award for writers. You might want to look into it someday.”

“Here,” he said, handing me a white marble. “My lucky marble. One day this’ll be a Pulitzer.”

A few days later, the whole town watched behind drawn curtains as Jamie Lee Flynn was taken to the courthouse. I snuck out the back door and ran as fast as I could, coming just in time to hear the click of handcuffs and watch him walk into the room. It all seemed to fit together perfectly, the heinous crime and the dastardly criminal. But something wasn’t quite right. I played back the day’s events in my head, and then, it clicked. Throwing open the courtroom doors, I marched inside.

“Wait!”

5 Heads turned sharply as I made my way up to the front of the room. I cleared my throat and began.

“Uh, Your Honor, I have something to say.”

“Get on with it, young lady.”

“Yes ma’am.” I faced the jury.

“Mister Jamie Flynn is innocent, and I can prove it! See, I’ve always wanted to be a journalist, so early this morning I went to the scene of the crime to get a story, and what did I find, covered in blood? Seems to me our lovely sheriff is protecting someone, because sitting in plain sight...”

I pulled something out of my pocket.

“A cufflink initialed HRB, and to top it all off, a phone call made to a Mister Johnson, detailing something that sounded suspiciously like a bribe. So I now ask you to re-examine the evidence.”

Uproar shook the court; incredulous gasps of “Not possible!” and “Oh my word!” and my personal favorite, “But he’s a commie!” filtered through the jurors before a hush, like fog, settled over the room, and a decision was reached. Judge Abrams looked at the jury in question, and the final verdict: “Innocent!”

Epilogue, 20 years later

New York City came alive with the hum of taxicabs and towering skyscrapers, and I wove through throngs of people before coming to a stop in front of the campus. Columbia

University was large and intimidating, but nothing scared me more than what was inside: the

Pulitzer Prize award ceremony. Everything I’d dreamed of, everything I’d worked for was inside that room. Squaring my shoulders, I took a deep breath. I pulled out the little white marble from all those years ago, and gently, snow began to fall.

6 When the Clouds Smiled

By: Sophie Zhang

“ALERT, ALERT! HUGE THUNDERSTORM COMING THROUGH! TAKE...!” Lilian didn’t hear the last few words. They were drowned out by roars of thunder and flashes of lightning.

The sky outside darkened with dense rain clouds. Rain poured down in thick sheets. Lilian was sitting in the living room reading a book when suddenly, the lights went out. Frightened and surprised, she reflexively jumped a foot in the air, flinging her book across the room. Fortunately, the power outage was brief and two minutes later, the lights flickered back on. The storms and flooding, however, lasted for many days. The aftermath took the town weeks to clean and repair.

Lilian was happy that her house was still standing—but without hot water to take her favorite bubble baths, and without school to keep her occupied—she quickly became bored.

Lilian, who had just turned eight years old, lived in a small town: Dripping Springs, Texas.

She had deep-set, ocean blue eyes; naturally wavy brown hair; fair skin that turned golden in the sun; and a playful, curious personality. Rows of oak trees and concrete pavers lined her neighborhood. Lilian’s house stood at the very end, away from all of the chaos on the street.

Lilian’s dwelling was painted titanium white, and a red, Mediterranean tiled roof hung over the house. Bright green grass covered her lawn; and in the middle, a fountain provided a fun place to dip her feet into on a hot summer day. An aquamarine colored pool glistened in the backyard.

Across from Lilian’s house was another small house, where a dusty, weathered “For Lease” sign had been hanging in front of the home for as long as Lilian could remember. Nobody had lived there for at least five years. Nobody knew why. The landlord had tried painting and repainting the

1 home many times in hopes of attracting renters, but it was no use. He even lowered the rent.

Everyone seemed to pass over the forlorn-looking house somehow.

This all changed after the big storm. A week after many of the homes in town had flooded,

Lilian saw a boy staring out of the window from the mysterious leased house. Squinting, it looked to her as if he had red hair, and a slim build. He had on a green shirt with some type of dinosaur that Lilian couldn’t make out. It was strange. The house had sat empty for years, so it was unsettling for Lilian to see another person inside—especially since the boy looked like he couldn’t have been more than five years old. Why was he there? Was he from Dripping Springs or somewhere else? Acting like the new neighbor’s arrival was none of her business, Lilian continued playing with her Barbie doll house.

The next day, when she ventured outside on her scooter with her dad, she saw the boy and his father outside playing catch with a tennis ball. Lilian’s dad noticed the boy’s father and walked over. Lilian didn’t know what they were saying, but she saw them talking merrily and shaking hands. Seeing her father’s confidence, Lilian decided to approach the boy. They introduced themselves.

“Hi, I’m Lilian! What is your name?” Lilian said in a confident voice.

“Hi, I’m Mark, I am new here,” the boy said shyly.

“I am bored around here without school! Want to play?”

“Sure! What should we play?”

Lilian thought for a moment. Then:

“TAG! YOU'RE IT!” she shouted.

“Hey no fair! I wasn’t ready! Mark yelled back.

2 Mark chased Lilian to the end of the neighborhood before he cornered her near a neighbor’s picket fence. They ran back and forth, laughing until they quit, gasping for breath. Then they played with Mark’s small chest of toys, and Lilian’s closet full of toys.

Mark’s forest green eyes looked at Lilian curiously. She could tell he wanted to ask her a question. Sensing his shyness, Lilian spoke first.

“Are you looking at my empty cage over there?” Lilian asked. He nodded, encouraging her to continue. “That is where my bunny Boba used to live,” she said, her voice faltering.

“Oh, what happened to him--if it is a boy?” Mark asked.

“Well, he is in heaven. We lost him.”

Mark looked like he was about to say something. He was silent for a while before Lilian blurted out: “What is the thing you miss the most?”

Mark hesitated, his eyebrows furrowing. He seemed to be deep in thought. At last, he said,

“Well, the first one is having both of my parents living together in the same house again. The second is to have my drone back. I lost it in the big storm a few weeks ago.”

“What happened to your family?” Lilian was careful to use a tone that was sympathetic, but at the same time, she tried to hide her concern.

“It is kind of hard to talk about, but my parents argued about everything: money, home repairs, grandparents, the storm…” he trailed off. Looking down, he continued in a barely audible whisper, “me.”

“Is there any way I can help? Maybe not with the grownups, but with the drone?”

Mark shrugged. They talked and played some more. In the end, Mark had to leave.

*********

At bedtime, Lilian’s mom asked her gently, “So, Lilian, tell me about your day.”

3 Lilian told her mom about Mark’s situation and they came up with a plan. The next day,

Lilian and her mom set off in search for another drone suitable for Mark. In most stores, the drones were bulky and only for fourteen year olds. In another store, the manager allowed Lilian and her mother to fly a sample drone, but it was jerky and kept crashing—despite Lilian’s attempts to steer it back up. Finally, Lilian and her mother came across an electronic store. They looked in every aisle until they finally found the perfect drone: it was called The Bumblebee, a bright, yellow and black drone. It was affordable, high quality, and age appropriate. The Bumblebee flew up to speeds of five miles per hour. It was small and safe: ideal for young children.

After Lilian and her mom returned to the neighborhood, Lilian jubilantly went to find

Mark. She couldn’t wait to show him. Mark was outside, playing in the neighborhood with his dad.

“Mark! Mark!” Lilian shouted, as she ran towards him. Her arms were outstretched towards the sky, with one hand proudly holding the new toy.

“Hello Lilian! What are you holding?” Mark yelled back.

When she handed him the drone, his eyes shone like stars. They seemed to pop out of their sockets.

“Is that for me?” He asked half hoping, half embarrassed that he had been so forward.

“Of course!” Lilian said.

Mark looked at her with some doubt. “You are not pulling my leg...are you?”

“I promise that it is yours! My mom and I bought it for you!”

Suddenly, he let out an unearthly shriek. It was between a happy sob and a disbelieving gasp. It was so loud and sudden, that Lilian almost dropped the drone.

“Can we open it? Can we open it?” he asked Lilian eagerly.

4 “Yeah, sure!”

They placed AAA batteries in the controller and a button battery in the drone. Lilian watched as Mark experimented with his new toy, gleefully pressing one button after another, and they laughed when he accidentally crashed the drone on his first try. Soon, he had mastered flying his new toy, and it soared high up in the white, cotton clouds—higher than the heavens. Never before had Lilian felt so giddily exuberant. Never before had she seen Mark so overjoyed. At long last, nearly all his sorrow seemed to have gone out of his eyes. Lilian had done something kind at last. Although she had done many small, kind things in the past, this moment was big.

Looking at Mark, a memory came upon her. When she arrived in this neighborhood two years ago, she had met a new friend. During the time when Lilian lost her bunny, her friend helped her make posters and went with her to search for Boba. Lilian was touched by how selfless and caring her friend had been—especially considering how distraught Lilian had felt about losing her bunny. Lilian’s friend had to move one day, but before she went, she told Lilian a quote said by

Kahlil Gibran: “Kindness is like snow. It beautifies everything it covers.”

Lilian snapped out of her memory and continued to watch Mark running around with the drone. She didn’t understand the quote at the time (her friend had been a couple years older), but now she did. The warm rays of sunshine shone with the beams of laughter, the puffy clouds formed into a smile, and the drone soared into the sky once more.

5 Adela Nicolae February 25, 2021

Connecting the Poles Apart

As I sit in the sweltering evening in the brick-red hut, I try hard to close my eyes and drift off after the long journey, but my body won’t allow me. This boarding school in Ngomano,

Kenya, has little of what I’m accustomed to back home in the U.S. My winter break changed in an instant when my mom decided to drag me on this trip, but I keep reminding myself that it’s temporary. It’s all temporary, like the school break itself. In one week I’ll go back home where winter reigns and see the cold, white snow instead of this martian-like dust that covers the hot campus paths. These two places are so different: worlds apart. Poles apart. What could connect them?

The next day I wake up rested. Mother reminded me that in the afternoon she’d be talking to some teachers, so I set off in search to find her later in the day. I wear my favorite pair of sandals which quickly becomes bronze from the fine, red dust. I gag, but I don’t want any of my other shoes to get dirty, so I’ll just have to wear these. I brought many changes of clothes, a different outfit for each single day.

In the distance I see the silhouette of a baobab tree while thickets of yellow wildflowers roam the lands. On campus, the ground is dusty but clean. Bushes with pink flowers, some scattered banana, mango and papaya trees and the field where students cultivate kale and chickpeas for their agriculture class and meals. A desolate, dry field stands beyond the last hut all the while more burgundy shacks line the landscape. The dry field proves to be the soccer field, such a contrast with the green soccer field from my school. Not a single soul is to be found. I

1 continue walking cautiously. Solar energy generators buzz softly and clinks from the kitchen reach my ear, but I continue walking. I need to find the teacher’s cottage. The boiling heat has already made me thirsty.

I rap at the door. “Hello?” My voice echoes off the walls. In the room, several large desks lie in a semicircle. “Can I help you with something?” A woman sits behind the desk directly to my right. “You must be Eliza,” she says, cheerfully. “My name is Ms. Kamau, and I am the science teacher here at Adamu Juma Middle School!”

“It’s nice to meet you. Which grade do you teach? ”

“All of them. We have ninety students in the 6th to 8th grades. Your mother has been such a huge supporter. If it weren’t for people like her the school might not be open today. Would you like to join my 7th-grade class this afternoon? It’s the last class of the day. ” I know it’s the polite thing to do, so I respond with, “Of course.”

The school has one hut per grade. The hut has only one room, with a couple of windows and a door that stays open most of the day to create some draft. The students sit in rows, each at their own desk. There are two blackboards and chalk and the teacher’s desk. A gap between the walls and the roof to allow the air to circulate. They don’t have AC to keep the buildings cool, that’s the natural ventilation. This means that insects or even birds can come in. Students do their best to focus during the class, despite the heat. I cannot help thinking that back at my school almost everyone has a cell phone, laptop, smart watch, to say nothing of the smart screens in the classrooms and the sophisticated technology in our labs. In the room, a single lightbulb hangs ​ from the ceiling. The lightbulb goes on in the evening, powered by solar panels. After dinner students come back to their classes to do their homework and study. “Students, this is Eliza.

2 She’s one of the visitors staying with us.” Ms. Kamau gives me a nod and I face the class. The students look at me curiously. I’ve got blonde long hair and green eyes. Both the girls and boys have shaved heads. They are dressed in a navy shirt, boys wearing navy pants and girls knee long navy skirts. I’m wearing a white skirt with colorful patterns and a pink t-shirt.

“Hello. My name is Eliza Weiss, and I’m staying here for the week. Your school is very different from my home. I hope we will get to know each other better.” I finish and take a seat in the back of the round classroom. The students are very active during the class, while I try to seem focused, the polite thing to do. Mother would be proud.

After school the campus blooms into life. Students go to the music and debate clubs, play chess or soccer, volleyball and basketball. Meanwhile, I’m not sure what to do. I haven’t found my mother yet. Several students had taken notice of me, but seemed to be too shy to come close to me. I sit on a bench to rest and watch the sunset, when a girl comes and sits by my side.“Are you Eliza? You came to my science class, during the last period of the day.” I try to remember the girl. She looks so much like the other kids. But her personality is different. She came to sit next to me. She spoke up first. Then I remember. “You’re Helen, right?”

“Yes!” She responds with a smile. “Please thank your parents for what they have done for the school, it’s our home.” Home? It sounds strange, as I don’t normally think of a school as a home. “We’re all so grateful for these privileges in life: water, food, shelter, electricity, this school, and each other…” Helen counts them on her fingers. “We live in serious poverty but all the students here have such a drive to have a great future that we ended up here, a boarding school for the poorest and smartest students. Back at home, I have an older sister and two younger brothers and it’s always a tough search for food and water. “Which schools do they go

3 to?” ”They don’t. My mother doesn't have money to pay the fees for the public schools. I’m the only one in the family going to school. I was lucky enough to be admitted here. It’s hard to get into a private boarding school like this one.”

She sighs. “We’re always kind to each other because we know what everyone is going through. It’s a hard life here. But if you see someone sad, try to be kind to them. It’s like giving them a slice of a pie, your kindness pie. Kindness is different for everyone, so it’s like they make their own recipe for the pie after what they think it’s made of, and the cycle repeats. The person who received the pie from you makes their own pie and gives someone else a slice…” She continues rambling on and I’m completely focused. I’ve never seen things like this from a different point of view. A bell rings in the distance. “It’s supper time now.” She tells me. “I hope we can talk again soon!” So do I.

I wake up early today, my mind in a completely different mode. I don’t mind the burning heat or the red dust, I just want to talk to Helen again. I spot Mother amongst the crowd and run to her. It’s a spontaneous assembly as the principal has something important to announce.

“Everyone, the water pump has broken and there is very little water left in the reservoir.

We need volunteers to fetch water from the river. ” Several students raise their hands. I see

Helen among them. “I’ll go too.” I almost shouted. “ We would be very happy to have you come with us, but Eliza, it’s not exactly an easy walk, the principal looks at me. “Please, sir. I can help too. Helen will show me what to do”. Mother looks puzzled at me. “ I see you’ve made a friend”, smiles the principal. “Everyone, we’ll leave in half an hour. Go get your jerrycans”.

I run, get my closed-toe shoes and come back. Helen and the other girls want to touch my long blonde hair. They admire my clothes. I wish they could experience the same life I live every

4 day. Everyone at the school has only two pairs of shoes and two pairs of clothes. Accompanied by the principal and my mother, all students and I go down paths of clay, dry weeds, and warped roots. A few villagers travel with their donkeys and jerrycans, and others herd goats. We walk for about 20 minutes when we reach a huge patch of sand. Reeds line the rims of what looks like a completely dry river. I see the pump with one end in a hole with muddy water. Everyone starts filling their jerrycans one by one. Some carry them on their heads, some hold them in their arms.

The sky is dim when we arrive back on the campus. My whole body aches but I feel so proud knowing what I’ve done. My face beams with happiness. It’s such an amazing feeling that

I’ve just experienced for the first time. Kindness has never really meant anything to me, it was just a way to be polite, do what you are expected to do.

Now, it’s the last day of my stay at the Adamu Juma Middle School. Helen and I are sitting on the same bench where we’d first met. We are looking at Mother’s old photos of when she climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. Helen immediately jumps into conversation. “I’ve always heard stories of Kilimanjaro. Something so large and majestic actually exists. I hope to go there one day, maybe to the summit. It has, what do you call it, the cold and fluffy stuff?”

“Snow?” I tell her. “Yes, that’s it! It’s so beautiful and magical.”

“You know what, Helen?” I tell her excitedly. “Last week you told me kindness is like a slice of pie. I think kindness is like snow- It beautifies everything it covers.” ​ “You’re absolutely right. One day we will climb up Kilimanjaro together. From what I’ve heard, it’s a completely different world.”

5 “Well, my home and your school are different too...” Poles apart. But you and I can bring them together,” I respond, hopefully.

6