Anthology 9 Young Writers Project Dedication to Young Writers Project Founder Geoff Gevalt

Young Writers Project owes its vitality to many generous people, but this book is dedicated to the one individual who invented it, persuaded others that it could work, and saw it through at every step of the way for a remarkable 12-year run. Geoff Gevalt is a newspaperman at heart – Young Writers Project actually began as a monthly series in the Burlington Free Press, where he was managing editor – and, like every good journalist, he is energized by the power of words. He understands their ability to inspire and shape lives, and as he built up Young Writers Project, he never lost sight of his belief that young people in their formative years could tap into the magic of writing, and from there, live richer lives, bend the arc of their own life stories and contribute to a better world. Geoff is stepping down this year from full-time duties as executive director, but will continue to contribute in many ways, and his ideals are written into the DNA of our organization. Geoff has touched countless lives. Below is a small sample of his impact on YWPers, past and present:

Thank you for teaching this kid from the middle of nowhere that there are people in the world who want to hear the stories floating around in her head.

— REBECCA VALLEY, NORTHAMPTON, MASS.

Without you, MGMC wouldn’t be a thing. Thank you for the music-filled car rides, the stories you’ve shared and the time you’ve taken to listen.

— KIRAN WAQAR, SOUTH BURLINGTON, MUSLIM GIRLS MAKING CHANGE (MGMC)

I think about you all, and the site, constantly. It wasn’t a fleeting or “stepping stone” thing for me – it was my life, carved me straight out of stone, shaped me completely! I wish I could thank you enough, Geoff, but never, ever could I.

Greg Brand — KATY TURNER, NEW YORK CITY

I felt less emotion upon graduating from high school than I did upon hearing that you’d be moving on from YWP, and that as a soon-to-be adult I might be forced to move on, too. You and YWP have been there for me since I was 12 and just in the early days of my writing journey.

— ELLA STAATS, BURLINGTON

Young Writers Project very genuinely shifted the course of my life. I don’t know how I could ever thank you for what you have done for me – and given to me.

— ANNA RUTENBECK, WASHINGTON, D.C.

2 3 About Young Writers Project

At Young Writers Project, we create a safe and respectful community for middle- and high-school students to discover the power of writing. By learning to write, young people gain the ability to express themselves clearly, think creatively and discover who they are — a process that can be life-changing in both their personal and professional lives. We are rooted in Vermont, and welcome young writers, artists and photographers from everywhere to experience our website, publications and special events.

OUR PROGRAMS

• Youngwritersproject.org is the heartbeat of our mission, providing daily writing challenges, positive feedback and a sense of community. For many of our writers, especially those living in rural and remote areas, our website is a lifeline to people like themselves who want to explore the world of writing, ideas and creativity.

• Special gatherings, workshops and after-school events bring young people together to learn more about the art of writing and performance. YWP’s Schools Project provides teachers their own classroom websites, support and writing residencies. Our youth-led Voices for Change project works to celebrate differences and promote understanding through spoken word events and community outreach.

• “The Voice” gives affirmation to the works of young writers and photogra- phers in a beautiful, monthly, online magazine.

• The Anthology Series publishes outstanding poems, stories and images in an annual, high-quality book format.

• Media partners present young writers’ work on Vermont Public Radio, Zoe Maxwell, Burlington VTDigger.org, RETN, medium.com, and in newspapers across Vermont — the Bradford Journal-Opinion, Brattleboro Reformer, Burlington Free Press, Charlotte News, Hinesburg Record, Rutland Herald, St. Albans Messenger, Times Argus and Valley News.

• Live performance events in the Burlington area include SoundCheck at Bur- lington City Arts, Poetry Riot at Arts Riot, Voices of Color Showcase at the Lamp Shop, Poetry Experience at Fletcher Free Library and a Youth Speaker Series at Clemmons Family Farm in Charlotte.

4 5 About Anthology 9

Young Writers Project believes that one of the most joyful aspects of writing is to see your work published in print, on good paper, with beautiful photography, fine design, and quality binding fashioned to last. With Anthology 9, we continue our tradition of rewarding some of the best work of the past year with the sense of permanence that only a published volume can achieve. The writers, photographers and artists published in Anthology 9 are drawn from about 10,000 submissions made to youngwritersproject.org from June 2017 to July 2018. It has been a tumultuous time in the history of our country, and events that roiled the nation inevitably made their way onto youngwritersproject.org. Young people, as you will see in the pages that follow, grappled with some of the most pressing issues of our day — the fate of immigrants, the rights of minorities, the dignity of women, school shootings — and their words are a testament to an informed, engaged generation. It is gratifying that these young people turn to Young Writers Project as a safe space and meaningful platform to share their voices at such a critical time in their lives and our history. Writing, of course, encompasses the full spectrum of human experience, and along with dark and complex pieces, this book includes poems and stories full of imagination, sunshine and sheer delight. With many of our writers and artists based in Vermont, it seems only right that the natural world of this beautiful state appears frequently in our collection. And, as always in our anthologies, young people wonder who they really are, as childhood slips away and adulthood beckons. We hope you enjoy this anthology, and hope it contains, for you, an idea, an image, a turn of phrase, something that resonates after you close the book.

THE EDITORIAL TEAM: Susan Reid, Anna Forsythe, Shannon Ripp, Kathy Folley, William Anderson, Rajnii Eddins, Andrea Gray (design) and Alan Schill- hammer (Queen City Printers).

Joshua Baker, Essex Junction THANK YOU TO OUR DONORS & PARTNERS: Young Writers Project is fortunate to have the support of many generous foundations, businesses and individuals, including: The Bay and Paul Foundations, Amy E. Tarrant Foundation, Doris Duke Foundation for Islamic Art, Physician’s Computer Company, and Vermont Business Roundtable and its members.

SPECIAL THANKS also to our fellow nonprofit partners and YWP friends, including the YWP Board led by Chair Kathy Folley, Arts Riot, Burlington City Arts, Burlington Telecom, Champlain College, Clemmons Family Farm, Flying Pig Bookstore, Flynn Center for Performing Arts, Karma Birdhouse, King Street Center, Maglianero’s, My Brother’s Keeper, Nutty Steph’s, Peace & Justice Center, Phoenix Books, Regional Educational Television Network (RETN), Shelburne Farms, Teresa Davis Studio, University of Vermont, Vermont College of Fine Arts, Vermont Folklife Center, Vermont Learning for the Future, Vermont Stage Company, VSAC, and Ver- mont libraries, schools and media, including newspapers, VPR.net and VTDigger.org.

6 7 Hands you can be hammering away at six dozen different ideas and not crack any Neelie Markley, Burlington of them open.

Look at your hands. They are twin And now you don’t notice anything. moons orbiting around you, with objects You swallow instead of tasting, you sing gravitating toward them and flying away. without hearing, you praise yourself, thinking you’ll be better at life the next Note the geography of them: the time you live it. Maybe then, you’ll have mountain range of knuckles that rises time to be happy. from clenched fists, the valleys between the tall, branchless fingers, the creased Maybe then, you’ll notice your hands. riverbeds etched through your palms.

Look closer. Observe the whorls on your fingertips, the subtle beat of your blood The Beautiful Inevitable as it courses through your wrists, the white edges of bone stretching the limits Eden Anne Bauer, Hanover, NH of your skin. There’s a whole rainbow bleeding out from your hands – soft, How beautifully the brush of existence blue-green veins, reddened fingernails, sweeps across the broad canvas of the violet scars. sky, leaving streaks of color Zoe Maxwell, Burlington Look again. See the cuticles you’ve in compliance with the whispered wish of watching ripped ragged with time, the slits of your Masterpiece Temporary fingernail tips, the collection of rashes eyes. and bruises and calluses you’ve collected Raising a harmonious symphony, Abigayle Domingue, St. Albans Taylor Lavigne, St. Albans without noticing. the birds cradle joy and sadness in song; as ink-black darkness spreads infinitely, Her lipstick prints onto the white You were temporary, Without noticing. light slips from the sky, but not for too ceramic, a slow-moving butterfly long. creating a collage of red against the white flying across my yard, You don’t notice hands, do you? Look at I catch my reflection in the window gloss. staying for the prettiest flowers, them. They’re alien, perfectly coordinated, and watch the twinkling stars dance in The ripples in her lips magnify the the open, beating sun, fluttering around you, preening you, my eyes. texture of the stain, the long grass. protecting you. I can’t stay for long — I wish I could, highlighting the matte white coat. But though, Over and over again she kisses the rim, you didn’t stay Since birth, bones have shifted into place. for I know all too soon the sun will rise. darkening the first coat and shadowing through the rain, They could’ve been whale flippers or bat I slip into a dream world of a kind, the white, the thunder – wings; you could’ve been born to fly, as shadows and light weave all through establishing a trim of red-blossomed or even but you’re not flying. You’re assigning life my mind. flowers. a slight breeze. to your hands so you can think about She paints them delicately to match the more important things, so while they vines of gold juggle and paddle and sketch and dance, growing from the base. A masterpiece of tender sips.

8 9 It’s Cold Tonight The One They Fear Cages I want my mother at night – when I wake up and my arms Ben Stoll, Georgia Javan Nichols, Burlington Alexandra Contreras-Montesano, are uncurled from her neck Burlington and I can no longer feel her face I take us to our spot, I am the one they fear. pressed against mine, the one that is marked loosely They see me from afar, I want my mother at night – and when they tell me to be still, with ancient mossy rocks. but are scared to come near… when my body catches up with my but tell her to move away. You sit down on a log cross the street just to stay clear. mind I want my mother at night – while I prepare a fire. They stereotype me as a thug; and my face unfolds from sleep, when I reach out, but all I find are bars. It’s a wonderful mess. don’t ever want to show me love. so I can remember every detail I want my mother at night – I throw together wet logs I am the one they fear. of the dream that woke me. when someone who is only two years and green branches. My skin’s as dark as the asphalt. I want my mother at night – older I have no newspaper, Their fear has me thinking, when I stumble from my raised bed tries to wipe my tears but I know that and my lighter is in the car. “It’s all my fault.” to hers, two rooms down and to the left. if their cage is as cold as mine, I clash rocks together Is my hair too long? Her covers are better, her arms warmer, then they are not company but a captive. in hopes for a spark, Are my pants too low? her breath reassuring. I want my mother at night – and instead find blood Can I not be trusted I want my mother at night – when I have finally learned when I smash my ring finger. if my skin’s not as white as snow? when I lose my first tooth how to live in the dark, There is no flame produced, I am the one they fear. and I don’t know if the fairy will come but they thrust me into the light of so I sit down next to you, I reach for my I.D., because I might have put it release, utterly defeated and fuming. but before I can, under my pillow too late. and the sweet taste of untainted air But I feel your fingers crawl the gunshots blind me. I want my mother at night – is sullied by the lack of those over and around my flannel Shot without explanation… when she keeps the light on in her room whose arms I was torn from, as you draw yourself Is this the way we live while she reads the bills until morning. right here, just days before. under my arm, in a so-called free nation? I want my mother at night – I want my mother at night – telling me that I am enough I am the one they fear. when the shouting reverberates in my when I reach out and still feel bars. to keep you warm. ears about how what we have Even if they are taken away, is not enough anymore, I know I will never be able to and how the crops are nothing sleep alone again. compared to NAFTA. I want my mother at night – when the days are getting longer and my feet are so tired from walking, and I don’t even know where I am going... just that it is better. I want my mother at night – when we take the loud bus to the closest town to the border, and there is no light to tell us where we are.

10 11 Valentine’s Day, 2018 I love you. Candlelight Creator You can’t hear over the scream of your Ella Staats, Burlington Shayle Dery-Roystan, Newbury Holly Margulius, South Burlington heartbeat. You can’t feel over the heat of blood in When you told your mom you loved her Look closer, past the satellites of space, The little boy sits in the seat across your veins. before you caught the bus this morning, past the refracted blue light of Earth’s from me on the yellow school bus. You can’t see behind the black spots in you meant it in the way a teenager atmosphere, He has a skateboard spread across his your eyes. means it toward the Northern Hemisphere, the lap, I love you. when they kiss their mother on the United States, and five pens shoved into his pocket. You are sorry for everything you ever cheek, farther down into New York, its largest He reaches for one and they tumble out. did wrong. cereal on their breath, city. He puts them back in, but keeps You are repenting for every sin you backpack on their shoulder, Fly through the glistening, rain-soaked one to doodle in a massive, worn might have committed. head in a million places. streets, sketchbook filled with white paper. You are praying to every god you didn’t You meant it in the way that assumes filled to the brim with people – their eyes I’ve seen him wear the same beaten think you believed in. you will see her that evening after track hollow, lifeless. khaki pants, scuffed white shoes I love you. practice, A turn left, right, right, left, to a small and speckled green sweater You are penning eulogies for the words in the way that assumes alleyway. every single day – you never said. you will seal the day with another I love You’re so close, you must see me now. from June through December. You are penning eulogies for the life you you Come closer. This boy is a creator. You can just tell. never lived. before you turn out the light. Down the alley to a small window where He’s giving to the world, You are penning eulogies for your a candle’s flame dances. even though I suspect that all classmates in the next room over. When you told your mom you loved her Here I am. I’m with a little boy who is it ever seems to do is take from him. I love you, Mom. at 2:21 PM on February 14, 2018, afraid of the dark, And I mean it this time. with saliva choking in your throat, but I am his protection against the evils I mean it as the Valentine’s Day card I you meant it in the way you could never of darkness. didn’t write you, mean anything else in your life. as the consolation for missing dinner last You meant it as an apology night, and a cry for help as the apology for every time I took for and a plea for her to hold you like she granted that I’d have another chance to did when you were little, say it. and the monsters in your dreams were The monsters found out where I go stuck in your head. when I’m awake, Mom, Mom, the monsters are real this time, and this time you’re not here to fend I swear it. them off. They’re real and they’re just around the corner. . . . They’re real and their teeth are bullets that bite the backs I love you, too. of friends who did not have time to tell Is everything their mothers they loved them. okay? They’re real and I’m so, so scared.

Sofia Hall, Essex Junction

12 13 Nothing to Say One Stormy Eve Stardust

Lucy Glueck, Hanover, NH Emily Trage, Thetford Sophie Dauerman, Shelburne

The morning was crisp and cold. Fall had just begun. Laura was bundled tightly The hour presents itself in shades of gray, It’s snowing. in her sweater. Her ears were numb and cold, but the rest of her was cozy. She carried rusted leaves replacing the blossoms of Large pieces of iridescent glitter a suitcase, pressed tightly against her chest. She could hear her own heartbeat echoing May. are sifting down through the metal clasps. The bus stop was still a couple blocks away, but the blue My footsteps crunch against gravel and through the woven cap line shuttle was leaving in only a couple of minutes, so she decided to cut through an stone of charcoal and papery clouds. alleyway to get where she was going a bit faster. as I tiredly wend my way home. Powdered sugar At the end of the alley, silhouetted against the clear blue sky, she saw a shape dusting a flat, dry pancake. she thought she recognized: a tall, slim man, underdressed for the weather in a light The rain wastes no time in tumbling It’s as if a giant grabbed the world synthetic jacket but standing straight, not appearing cold. His hair was buzzed short, down, in its monstrous hands and shook it cropped even closer to his scalp than Laura’s was. He was facing away from her, but collecting on flowers and soaking the with bottomless will, even from the back she noticed a familiar bobbling to his stride. town, until the glitter of the stars Her old friend! As little kids they had been inseparable, but it had been a long time clinging to shoes, then socks, then bare traced its way down to Earth. since they had been close, and a couple of years ago she’d lost track of him altogether. feet I look down at my paper. But now, here he was, standing in front of her, just a few meters away. He hadn’t as I follow the lonely street. Nucleosynthesis. Quarks. noticed her yet, but all Laura would have to do would be to hold up a hand and call To hydrogen, to helium, his name and he would see her, and they could talk again at last. I watch in wonder as the river swells, to carbon, to oxygen. Laura never would have thought that she would lose touch with him in the first and fat droplets sing like tinkling bells. My eyes find the window. place. As children, they would splash in puddles, hold hands, play new games and The sky darkens fast and I quicken my Somewhere out there, invent machines that they would never build. There had been whispered jokes of pace a very long time ago, marriage. But Laura had never wanted to marry him – never wanted to marry anyone, through pastures of Queen Anne’s lace. a star exploded, never wanted to be anything more than friends. Even as a little kid, she had known and its dust held a secret that someday she would marry a faceless man and the sleepovers with her male But sadly, all good things must come to recipe for snow. friends would have to stop because he would be jealous. She didn’t want that, at the an end, As I stare out the window time, but she figured that someday she would grow up and mature and be okay with and I audibly sigh as I come round the of my biology classroom, the idea. bend. just a piece of glitter in comparison Now she was almost 30 and hadn’t warmed to the concept at all. Even at 5 or I peer through the haze — my house is to an all-encompassing universe, 6 she’d understood: Everyone likes a tomboy, until she turns 12 or 13 and doesn’t in sight, I witness the stars outgrow it properly. There was an expiration date on her style, her friendships, the a reprieve from this stormy night. falling down to Earth. way she played and talked, the shoes she wore. But she hadn’t expired; she’d grown and bloomed. And here was her former friend, standing just in front of her. He hadn’t I rejoice in the last few drops of the rain, changed, but there had never been any pressure for him to change. The only thing that quite out of breath, but surely still sane. had changed was that he had stopped talking to her. The dreams they’d had since they I stumble onto the sunken wood porch were tiny, about a friendship that would last forever and never leave, had now faded. before lightning strikes like a torch. She approached him in the narrowness of the alleyway, so close that she could hear him breathing, and kept her eyes straight ahead as she passed. Approaching the threshold I knock on They had nothing to say to each other. the door, dripping wet puddles all over the floor. And I suddenly realize, a laugh in my throat, that I am not wearing a raincoat.

14 15 Peace and Rage The violent crackles and pops echo among themselves Janet McIntosh Barkdoll, East Shoreham like shattering glass, again and again and again. Peace. The pot has boiled dry. There are pieces of peace scattered across It is silent now. the hills, The hiss and fuss are gone. thrown in corners with abandoned The pot still stands on the ignited burner, spider webs its bottom scorching, baking, cracking, and forgotten for decades. the aluminum overheating, silently. Those pieces of peace do not deteriorate. The water no longer boils out of control, They only wait. but the heat remains and damages. Patiently. Rage still destroys. Observant eyes and carefully attuned ears can pick them out, track them down, gently pick them up Origami Wolf and blow the cobwebs away, Nora Wootten, Cornwall returning happiness, laughter, sunlight, trees, I saw your eyes first. companions to the world. You had a little bit of gray behind them. Peace reincarnated piece by piece. Your eyebrows strung together, and your forehead knit itself into a scarf. Rage is red like a ruby. I think it would be orange. It burns through everything in its way, trailing hot coals and lifeless ashes in its You said, wake. “This is for me?” Rage. as if you were surprised These four letters are weighed down by Aly Katon, Essex Junction that someone would take the so much emotion. time to make something for you. Clenched fists/gritted teeth/furrowed brows/tight face. I said, “Yes, it’s for you (silly).” Wondering Loudly vessel. Peacefully, they slip out of each Rage bubbles up inside me Your scarf unraveled quite quickly. other’s intimate presence and go their like water boiling over the edges of the Will Kimber, East Corinth You kind of bit your lip separate ways. pot, Why is the sky so blue? before you smiled. I wonder why the sky is blue… spilling and leaping from its rim, to fizz, All this time I never knew It was a small smile. All this time I never knew hiss and spit why the sky is blue. It was only a tiny bit of light let why the sky is blue. on the burner below. Could the sky be blue because – in Clouds dot the sky like puffy Spit. “Um, Will,” my mother interjects, through the blinds. white ships sailing to distant lands, Hiss. “the sky is blue because the atmosphere commandeered by Captain Wind. A Spit. scatters the most visible blue light. That crazed skipper, Wind is, ramming the is why the sky appears blue to us.” other ships with impunity. For when the Oh. I guess I was wondering loudly. boats collide, they sink into each other like ghosts, harming not the crew nor the

16 17 Dare not asking for permission – but instead taking a seat on my tongue Shannon MacDonald, Sheldon and resting its head on my lips, showing its face and bearing its scars March 24, 2018 – Montpelier, Vermont from being told what it could not say, For the first time, I felt it rise up within and what it should not say. me. It enveloped itself in the sun and joined Without hesitation, without shame, with the thousands of other voices without fear. My own voice – in filling the air with vibrations. crawling out of my larynx First you see us, the people. and escaping out of my mouth, Now you hear our voices, begrudgingly pulling itself along, now you feel our voices. weak from the journey, but persevering. And, oh, they taunt you with inspiration, For the first time, it demanded to be they unnerve you with education, heard, and they dare you to ignore them.

Tess LaLonde, South Burlington

Fairy Wings to see the world so purely Iris Robert, South Burlington and happily, when we were Oh, how we wish oblivious to everything to be five beyond our Barbies, years old again, before dances, before stress, restless nights, sorrow, PopSockets makeup-smeared faces, and Snapchat began, before tears – created when all we knew from pain so deep were fairy wings, that we long sparkly, pink and for Band-Aids magical, and scraped knees – before we knew back when life was kind, too well of and our fairy wings, broken hearts pink, sparkly and and lost friends, magical, when we thought were still so full that nothing could of promises break us, that we thought that we could we could fly. fly. Oh, how we wish Oh, how we wish to be five to be five years old again. Anna Doucet, Bristol years old again,

18 19 Marlie Smith, Essex Junction

Delaney Harrison, Essex Junction

The In-Between

Lila Woodard, Burlington

It is in the in-between that I live, the unknown and unrecognized reverie that consumes and spits me out every day.

Caleb Brott, Essex Junction

20 21 Electric Galaxy Teeming night, do you see me add to your sky as you add to mine? Shyloh Wonder-Maez, Barre Awe inspiring, spread out like beautiful coral, City floating in the black, inky sky, or a crack in the earth I see you as I fly by. with shining stardust showing through. Each light adds to the galaxy I want to reach out and dip my of stories and lives. fingers into the land, I imagine jumping into touching each light. the darkness, forever falling up We cannot be only a blight. into the night sky reflected below. There is a peace to the chaos as you Maybe it’s an ocean with watch from afar. strange creatures busy flowing It used to be a miracle to see the world with the undertow. from the sky. I’m a space traveler observing without Beauty tends to be lost on us after really seeing, the miracle has ended. but I can still feel each being, Sky, inky black, pockets of life shown by lights. floating city. Joshua Baker, Essex Junction

For Summer Her Sister’s Sea Glass

Francesca Richard, St. Albans Sophie Usherwood, Hanover, NH

It’s the heavy air, She smashes the pieces of her sister’s sea the parched grass’s thirst glass onto the ground, quenched, multitudes of colors like sugar thrown the dog napping sprawled on a into her eyes, weathered deck. she, rocking backward and forward in It’s dirt collecting on bare feet. anticipation to show her sister It’s slivers on your palms and pollen in how many more pieces of sea glass she your nose, will have now. the whine of insects and the distant chuckle of farm equipment, senses melded together because, which one is which? I’m stuck in the lull of it, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Cassidy Mancuso, Essex Junction

22 23 Flyer Wall Jim stares blankly at the wall. The Crack What If? In each colorful paper, he sees William Keeton, Burlington Lindsey Carbee, Newbury Jillian Sherwin, Rochester visions of things he could become. Each one holds a parallel universe A massive board covers the wall, Soft moonlight cast a luminous glow on When I was little, with a person who is better than he is. plastered with flyers: music festivals, job the freshly fallen snow. the boys in my class What group will he join? opportunities, Sitting on the edge of the windowsill, would huddle together Who does he want to be? internships, services, products. I watched each snowflake develop, and start talking He feels that if he stares at this wall, They all compete for space and attention, drifting slowly downward... about the most random a sheet of advertisements, piled on top of each other, a sea of winding, things. the answer will come to him. choice curling, that blends together into a jumbled, until it reached the mound of white. What if, incoherent mess of words. Silently, they would say, the green grass a snail roller skated down was covered in a layer of snow. a mountain, I felt connected to each snowflake, and then fell into knowing each turn it would make, a huge pool of chocolate? storing each pattern in my memory. It was a tradition, What if admiring the first snowfall there was a robot from the comfort of the windowsill. who jumped on a trampoline The long crack, and flew all the way reaching diagonally from one end of the to Mars? window to the other, reminded me that the cold brings When I was little, hardships. this annoyed me. The faded gray staining, I thought it was almost white where I rested, stupid, encompassed memories from previous ridiculous snowfalls. and This year was different, however. never going to happen. There were once two of us admiring the snowfall yearly. Now The hardships of winter, I realize taking a life, that the world needs cracking a window. these This year it was only me watching, what-if remembering, people. Hanna Gustafson, South Burlington hoping that she would emerge from the snow I’m a what-if person, and stay here forever ... and I don’t want to watch the snow fall. to live in a world without what-ifs.

24 25

Janitor New Friend Schizo They describe it like a rollercoaster. You go up and up and up, Fiona Goodman, Brattleboro Samantha Aikman, Richmond Sara Young, Sheldon and just when you’re on the top – clarity! Rushing to the bathroom I met you last week. I wish I had known you You crash down faster than you can at the beginning of jazz band, before the darkness crept in, imagine. I passed by the janitor We were quiet before the voices whispered, Forty-seven years of the same mopping underneath the stairs. and lonely before the demons lurked in every rollercoaster is tiring. At his feet was a pile and only had the courage to smile, corner. of folded-up paper plates, garbage. And now, He wore a blue jumpsuit skipping rocks Kind, compassionate, caring, your boisterous, booming laugh and had a balding, liver-spotted head. and occasionally wading into the ocean. all manner of “C” sounds to describe you echoes in Martha’s Kitchen, His face was droopy, then. a shared joke between you and a friend like a basset hound’s. I want to remember it forever. They describe you now, still, nobody else can see. I wanted to smile at him – The way only changed, but I’m not so good only not. Society shuns you, at smiling at strangers. I met you, deems you unimportant. He stopped mopping when I got close, the way you looked at me, It first manifested as You can’t work, you can’t provide. drew over to the side so I could pass. the way the ocean curved ceaseless, complex, cacophonic.

I was ashamed into the horizon Your diary read, “I can’t take this,” You stare at me on the street of my confident walk toward him, and disappeared. and you hit your mother with a wrench, and I turn my face away. the way I didn’t pay attention or so you thought. I’m sorry. and didn’t notice him until then. I want to remember forever how I met You did not deserve that. I wanted to tell him to keep mopping – you Meal time was spent on the porch, or at least give him and when I first saw you smile alone. You are so different. that tiny little token of a smile and how you sang. Inside the house, siblings laughed. I’m sorry I was scared. to let him know that I could care. Inside your head, something laughed, I didn’t know you then. But as I drew near, I want to remember not knowing you too. I still don’t know you now. my face froze; my legs kept walking. and then, suddenly,

I passed by and left him there mopping – changing. Aunty took one look and said it, Coughs rack your body. he, just another sad man a cruel, careless word, You have the grin and wide eyes cleaning up other people’s messes, the word of a trained nurse: of someone who has seen too much, and I, just another girl “Schizophrenia.” and heard too much who didn’t care. and felt too much. Dad was scared to death.

You were three years older than him. I try to piece together what I can. What if he caught the loony gene too? There’s so much history, Oh God, what if they all did? gaps in the stories.

I crave understanding A trip to Ohio was supposed to set you so I can commemorate you. straight. You came back curved and crooked, babbling about love you found in the woods, some beautiful girl in the woods.

26 27 How to Lose Your Name You lose your name. Blur “Thoughts and prayers.” And when you say Comments fire off Narges Anzali, Weybridge Isa Blankenbaker, Rutland your real name on stage, in rapid succession. you will feel a moment of pride. Hindsight and foresight merge You lose your name Countryside passes in a blur; But then you will start to tear up as we stumble toward a scene, in a language that gives your name the bus rattles some more as you feel a part of your heart identical to the one vowels like curdled milk. as I sit, no longer sure which start to chip off. we claim to have left behind. You lose your name shooting I am grieving for. Because even though Cleverly we dodge the talk after hearing all the variations Massachusetts? that other name was wrong, of one massacre that are not your name. Connecticut? it was still your name. to throw ourselves You lose your name Kentucky? And you lose your name. right into the next one. in the eyes of new teachers or substitutes, Florida? Again, For we live in a country in that moment they cringe There have been so many and again, where the lives of my peers and me when they see your name that I just don’t know. and again are not worth passing legislation for, at the top of the list. Names, faces, dates, and again. a country where our deaths You lose your name injuries and fatalities. Because when people like me are an acceptable price to pay. when you meet new people, They all pass in a blur. come to this country, The bus rattles on, and your heart falls New lives cut short we always lose our names. and I blink back tears, because you don’t even care by the sharp pang not sure whether I’m crying to explain to them how to say it of yet another shot, over the past, the present, anymore. as we circle round or all those yet to come. You lose your name in this horrific revolving door. when everybody calls you Reverie for a Wednesday “This isn’t the time to talk.” by the other name, Morning the wrong name, Elliott Austin, Jericho the one that haunts you all day long, lurking even in the shadows There is too much nothing today, until you want to shout: a pale ambiguity “That’s not my name!” slurping up emotions for a snack. You lose your name It packs my tongue in chalk when your friends and devours me with a grin. correct the substitutes, The sky brims with emptiness. because you don’t even care enough If you look closely, it’s overflowing, to correct them anymore. copious and slippery, You lose your name steeping the ground in a blank page. after you start to introduce yourself A monochromatic froth with their name for you, envelops my toes. the wrong one. Walking home, I look down You lose your name to see if they’re still moving when you start calling yourself and I can’t seem to understand by the wrong name. why the snow falls if only to melt on my shoulder.

Livia Ball, Essex Junction

28 29 Hidden Messages something that I am able to give to you. All the Ideas Are Taken On Facing My College Applications Naomi Brightman, Cornwall Luke Michael, Burlington You might not see it at first, Rachel Fickes, Peacham but it’s always there – Among those jumbled thoughts, my hidden message. the endless ideas crammed down on the All the ideas are taken I am growing on my own fewest pages possible and I don’t know what I should write. in a forest full of growers. in one notebook or another, Being one inch tall and a giant awakens? They jostle at my elbows, the twisted plot of my narrative, Temple Or maybe the power of flight? crying pleas to distant stars, or the rhythmic poems I write, swaying and touching there are hidden messages. Gabby Chisamore, Vernon No, it’s been done; I’ve seen it before! for desperate support. To steal their ideas would be theft. Twigs meet branches meet trunks My body might be a temple, A warning, I’m sitting here with an empty page, in crowding harmony rife with hopes. but I am the god it was built for. a disguised true story, but there are simply no ideas left! The twisting arms call me ever higher. So don’t tell me how to decorate my a hint... Down on the ground the moss slithers – altar. at anything really. You see, Hollywood knows what it’s stretching, curling, creeping. Don’t tell me how to run my religion. doing – The roots snatch at my ankles Don’t tell me how to recite my prayers. Maybe I take a misleading route rebooting an old film or just making a and caress my stilled toes Don’t tell me the verses from my bible. to try to tell you how I really feel. sequel. with promises of strength Don’t tell me the gods that I am And if that doesn’t work far below the earth. supposed to like and the ones I am not. Maybe I paint a picture of what we ‘cause they need some green, I stand on my own, Do not tell me that other people can use should be, who’s to stop them from making a pulled above, cajoled below, my temple how they want without my crying out for help, persuasion in every prequel? and I am growing sideways. consent. word. Don’t tell me, the god of myself, that my But I don’t want to do that. temple is not perfect the way it is. Maybe you need a little something that I want to be new! To make something Don’t tell me that my temple could be a will lift your head, fresh and exciting. few jeans sizes smaller. something that will make you laugh, If I had been born Don’t tell me that my temple is too wide something that reminds you I’m here. a hundred years in the past, or too narrow. I’d have so many ideas for my writing! Don’t tell me that my temple is too tall Maybe I have been taken or too short. to a place far away, Then my 6-year-old bro says, Don’t tell me that my temple is too beyond what’s in front of us, “Wouldn’t it be cool – the story of an flashy or too covered up. that inspires a message – underlying, outer space hen?” Don’t tell me that my temple has too steady, And I look at my page, start writing many piercings. unreadable for some – things down, Don’t tell me that my temple’s hair is but still there. realizing what a big fool I have been. weird.

And don’t tell me that my temple does With a drop of inspiration, not need all that makeup. I hit the ground running, For a god does as she pleases with her and I build a new world, temple. one with mystery, And those who wish to worship it, are thrill, welcome inside it. beauty –

30 31 I Believe There is More Than Us If I Die in a School Run Free Shooting Alaena Hunt, Stowe Nicolina Czekaj, St. Albans Hailey Chase, Hinesburg There’s a field near my house that holds something big: secrets and history and I sit on the branch, feeling the rough knowledge, and everything that is unknown to me. In the winter, a soft coat of snow If I die in a school shooting, bark covers it like a fluffy blanket, making it look like an endless spread of white. In the politicize my death. of the old oak tree bite at my legs. spring, bright yellow daisies grow from the ground, eager to blow in the wind. I long Fight for our safety. The cool, misty air kisses my skin, to run through them and lie with them. In the summer, wildflowers spring from the Turn my funeral into a protest. as the leaves whisper secrets to one ground, growing up toward the sun as if they long to be let free from the confines If I die in a school shooting, another of the soil. In the fall, the leaves float from the trees and cover the field with browns, I will never play sports again. in a language that only they understand. yellows and reds, signaling the start of winter. My goals, my hopes, my dreams The golden fur of my retriever On special days, the sun shines down as if it were casting a spell. The field glistens will all come to an end. glistens in the pale sunlight. and glows like this is its moment to shine. Yet, no matter how much beauty the field is If I die in a school shooting, The sun just peaks through holding, people drive by — they’re too busy and caught up in their own lives to notice. battle until students and teachers are safe. the tangle of forest trees up ahead, But I notice. Don’t let my death become a statistic. casting a warm glow, bathing the I notice when the daisies bloom. I notice when the leaves fall. I notice when the Help kids go to school unafraid. backyard deer graze in the field. I notice when the frogs make the journey from the field to the If I die in a school shooting, in velvety hues of yellow and red. stream, crossing the road on their way. I notice when the frogs get hit by cars because I will never become a doctor. I pick at the tree bark people don’t notice them, too caught up in their lives. I will never graduate high school, before swinging my feet over the branch, I notice. And so does the field. It sits and watches. and my parents letting myself down onto soft, damp We are all so caught up in our own lives that we often miss all the beautiful things will no longer have a daughter. grass. in the world. Humans have been on this planet for 200,000 years, but the Earth has If I die in a school shooting, My dog pants, greeting me been cycling from winter into spring, spring into summer, summer into fall and fall my little brother with a childlike enthusiasm, into winter for nearly four and a half billion years. There is so much knowledge and will become an only child. her tail wagging as her wet tongue licks power hidden where we will never find it, yet we walk around as if we own the Earth. Fight for all the lost lives, my face. We are all so small, yet we act so big. and make change be required. I grab a stick, holding it tight. I believe that a field holds more knowledge than I ever will. I believe that the If I die in a school shooting, Her chocolate eyes widen in anticipation. sky has more power than the whole human race combined. I believe that we are just turn my ashes into a book “Ready?” I say, pulling my arm back. short-time visitors on a planet that is mightier than us all. I believe that when you and write the story The stick catapults across the lawn. look at how small we are, all the little things in life are so insignificant. I believe we are of how my life should have looked. Dirt sprays in every direction small and we have to be at peace with that. I believe in the cycle of the seasons for If I die in a school shooting, as my loyal companion it is consistent. I believe that no matter how hard we try, the human race will not be deliver my heart to the NRA – tears up the earth and runs free. around forever. because those people are heartless We are one small dot in a bigger plan. We are not the greatest power on Earth; the and I was a child they could have saved. Earth itself is. If I die in a school shooting, I believe there is more to life than the little problems we face in our day-to-day, my family will be in pain. yet we all get so caught up in them. I believe in stopping to watch for little frogs Give them a hug, crossing the road. I believe in noticing the beauty in a field. I believe in not getting and turn the hurt into change. too focused on yourself and what you want. I believe there is more to life than our If I die in a school shooting, problems, yet we let them define us. please let me be the last. I believe there is more to life than us.

32 33 Welcome Enrich me. I am still prepared for the waves, the Everything Truly make me great again. currents of people washing onto my Muslim Girls Making Change Hugo Crainich, Burlington beaches. (Hawa Adam, Burlington; Lena Chorus: Lady Liberty, you were built Ginawi, South Burlington; Balkisa I am the one who wants to know with broken chains at your feet. Chorus: Do you mean the pollution? Omar, Burlington; Kiran Waqar, South everything… You were a gift that tried to erase the We are trash. We take up too much Burlington) Does the universe end, memory space. or does it go on forever? Lady Liberty: Welcome, welcome. of a time when they brought darker folks No one speaks up for us. Does it stop at one point? Child, your mother is calling you. than me, We are the immigrants who stole your Possibly, however… Come mix into this melting pot. iron-clad, with heads down, souls jobs, Where? When? We invite the flavor, the culture, the broken. who built your jobs. There’s always more space warmth. Your people stole my people when they Oh, how you forget history. on the other side of everything — Come to the land of the free, needed them, You turned away Jewish refugees and a whole different place! to the home of the brave. had power over them. sent them back to Europe, Does life really end? But now we need you. sent them back to the camps they had Is that all; are you done? Chorus: Whose land is this? Can your people welcome us without run from. Or do you start a new life How far does your freedom go back? owning us? But they were so close, waiting on the out on the sun? Do you know the names of the tribes beaches of Florida, Do you go to Valhalla, heaven or hell? whose land you stand on? Lady Liberty: Yes. I am a mother; you are full of hope. America would save them. Do you lie there unconscious Who decides who stands here? my children. I cannot own my own kin. You would save them. in your long, skinny cell? My family is deeper than countries and But we are a threat, aren’t we? Will time go on forever? Lady Liberty: My torch is lit for you. boundaries, my bloodline is thicker than That justifies it, right? Will it ever end? I stand alone in the dark. oceans. Give me all those who ache to We are spies, a danger to national Is anything impossible Come join me. breathe in a space where they will not security. or just too hard to comprehend? Come. be beaten for daring to let their lungs We were, we are... Is magic real? My soil is ready for your footprints. expand. Yes, I want your tired, your scary, Will we ever go to Mars? Child, come swim in this liquor of poor, the ones yearning to breathe free. dangerous, Will we live on another planet? liberty. Child, breathe free! foreign. Or will we go all the way to the stars? But aren’t we all your children? I am the one who … Chorus: Let me tell you. Chorus: We can’t breathe. has all the questions, I fought hard for my freedom. The walls they talk of building are Lady Liberty: It is time to make amends. but none of the answers. My children are dead. closing in on us. My mother is dead. Where is the freedom that you once gave Chorus (knocking): We’re still here. My father is dead. out so graciously? My family is dead. Why do you refuse us today when you accepted us yesterday? Solo: I am alone. I cannot breathe. Lady Liberty: You are welcome. Tell me, who is truly welcome here? I invite you who have suffered Lady Liberty, teach us again. to enjoy this freedom, to be fed. I’ll let you in; I have let them in. Lady Liberty: I’m still teaching with open I held my torch for all to see when they arms. drew close Please join me, please hug me. that their travel had paid off.

34 35 Artisan Textiles Words gush from their cartridges, their torn limbs, Hazel Civalier, Burlington whirling in pastel dust and metallic chords, I’m obsessed with words, to settle all around me with scratching mental letters like motes of the sun. into threaded blue jeans and squeaky wooden table tops, and barren midnight swaths of bed sheets soaked in ink. Beauty Standards My cloth is woven on a mental loom, frameworks of English Gamana Haji, Burlington threaded with fine threads of phrases, each spun of intertwining tufts You got me bent if you think I will take, of verbiage dyed to minute vibrancy “You’re pretty for a dark-skinned girl,” as by the arrangement a compliment. of 26 simple shapes. My fellow black girls – we are beautiful The cloth often likens with or without their confirmation. to a photograph of realization, And not just beautiful for dark-skinned girls. broken down to pixels Abigail Harkness, Shelburne and numbered quantities They just cannot yet handle of red, green and blue. the beautiful curls of our hair, It is a conceptualization, the way our skin glows in the sun a pinch of the world. naturally, The First One To the Mice in My Wall or the way our hips move The visual cloth is Sophia Cannizzaro, Concord, MA Hope Reeve, Wolcott of symmetrical water or geometric fire – to the sweet sound of our ancestors’ drum beats. a language of paradoxical symbolism, I can’t decide if the anger or the Hello, mice. Our self-acceptance is more than existing in the Duat of expression, gentleness is the mask. It’s midnight and I’d like to sleep, enough. at once sliding in and out Something is hiding behind this sweet but you’re running, scampering in my Don’t ever let them make you feel of focus with Earth. face of yours, walls. as if we need to live up to their Music is woven of many materials, but I can’t even peel back the wallpaper Could you sleep, please? I’d like to. expectations – of flowing vibrations to get to the wall. Do you hear me, mice? that we have to be like them, which conjure engraved images It’s a lot of work, this masonry you Can you hear the long nights of tears, look like them, act like them. of sporadic movement – maintain just to keep me the yelling that is whispered? We’ve got our own kind of magic. We’re a soaring dance of invisible energy. out. Maybe if you’d remembered a I think you, mice, pretty. To be all this, the loom is half ghost chimney know me better than my parents do. And not just for dark-skinned girls. and the weaver blindfolded. you wouldn’t be so stuffy inside. You hear me even if you don’t talk back. Yet language is different than cloth, “Hello, mice.” not woven to the beat of a metronome Thank you for living here but in a flurry of disjointed green ink even if you don’t sleep when I want to. and sun-bleached chalk, of harmonicas and lawn clippings.

36 37 The Sky and the Stars dotting the blackness like freckles on a Feelings of Loss Closer to the Edge giant face, Kelly Daigle, Bradford Michelle Lee, Yongin-si, South Korea Madison Clair, Duxbury welcoming me back after a long journey home. The car door slams behind me as I step Why do I cry like the trees It’s not until the gravel is slipping from The moon is at the center of it all, an out onto the driveway. in fall under your feet eye of incandescent light surrounded by The brisk air flows around me, flipping and scream into the winter wind? that they tell you you’re too close to the smaller ones. my hair this way and that. Why do my silver leaves drip so easily, edge, They all look so close, like I could reach “You can go inside; I’ll be there in a with only a simple kiss of moonlight that you need to back up. out with my hands and touch them, second,” or the laughter of the lucky bluebird? What they don’t realize is grasp them between my fingers and toss I tell my mom as she sees me walk Why do I still wonder your legs have been dangling over the them back into the air. toward the backyard. how I can embrace the lost, cliff your whole life, I get caught up in them, their brightness She nods and leaves the outdoor light and warm the cold with my willing you to jump, holding my eyes, on. own frigid hands? so close and nothing else seems to matter. We’ve been through this before. How do I cease to forget you can feel the tug of the wind That’s why I don’t hear the small black- I have a fascination with the sky. the feel of a sweet voice underneath your shoes. and-white creature approach behind me. Whether it be day or night, the sky has and lazy rays of sun making the dust It’s not until you look behind you, In that moment, I realize that skunks always been there. glow, to get one last glance of what you’re might also like the night sky, It has never left and never will. I like like my own little constellation of tiny leaving behind, and don’t like anyone else looking at it, looking at the clouds, stars? that you realize what you thought was either. at the beautiful warm hues the sun Why must I adore a ghost your shadow all these years makes on them. and not a person? is the one who loves you, So many marvelous things come from it. How do I intertwine fingers standing on the edge with you, I like the day sky, with the blue that can’t Would You? with a shadow? slowly reeling you back in. be replicated anywhere else – How can I say ‘thank you’ not even by that wall paint named after Dan Gregory, St. Albans when I’ve already said ‘goodbye’? it – with the white, fluffy clouds strewn all Would you (if you around, do not mind and if it’s not like someone had a pillow fight and too much trouble) walk didn’t clean up their mess. with me awhile? But more than that, I like the night sky. We can go anywhere There is a special kind of quietness, a you like (or nowhere kind of beauty that few appreciate. in particular if that were That’s why, when I leave the car, I go to please you better). into my backyard, slipping and skidding Maybe we can stop on the driveway by the dim light of the for a coffee or browse porch. through the bookstore I’ve been waiting for this moment ever (or just walk quietly since I noticed the sky on the ride home. side by side), if you As I stand in my half-acre backyard, would not mind. I crane my neck back to look, and am greeted with thousands of faint little stars, Zoe Maxwell, Burlington

38 39 By Poetry “Hello, is anyone there?” But sometimes I get lonely, Saia Patel, Hanover, NH even surrounded by my own thoughts and feelings: I. Moved: of happiness, I am moved by poetry – of sadness, sometimes slammed against the walls, of hopes, tossed up and down, side to side, to and of fears. fro. It’s a small, small world after all. The adrenaline is spine-tingling, IV. Occupied: heart-stopping, I am occupied by poetry. hair-raising. Other people keep souvenirs. I feel the flow of poetry, I keep words instead, the words coming together, like a security blanket. unified, but divided, too – I collect poetry, too – unified so every word connects, sometimes sentences and phrases and and divided so every word has its own fragments. meaning. Sometimes thoughts and ideas and So every word has its own story. figments of thoughts and ideas, and thoughts that will be turned into II. Broken: ideas, Erin Bundock, Burlington I am broken by poetry. and ideas that will be turned back into Touched, tapped. thoughts. My heart breaks, I collect people’s stories, impressions and There is no time to leave the important No… implodes, expressions words unsaid I need to grab the bull by its horns, explodes so that their stories because those words will vanish – because taking it would risk letting it go. into thousands of irreparable, will turn into other stories dissolve into nothing and everything, And I can’t let it go… irreplaceable that will inspire other stories. folding inside-out, I need to let my pen touch the paper. bits and shards, I collect reverting to mere remnants of thought. I need to put the sword to the throat, over and over. like a magpie gathering its trinkets and And all the words that I gather and all confront the problem, “Be careful,” they say. “Glass hurts!” treasures in its nest. the words that I write or else I know it hurts. One man’s trash is another’s treasure. will be gone. I will feel My heart hurts, too. I turn their trash into my treasure, like I am hanging off the edge of a cliff. But I would rather have my heart their old into my new, V. Called: One slip, broken by poetry, anyway, twisting and turning it for myself. I am called by poetry. one fault, even though I have to glue it back I guess I am selfish in that way. I need to let go of my pent-up feelings, one mistake together. If we are who we are because of what the feelings that are shoved down would misplace me It always falls apart. we have, and stored away to deal with at a later and knock me over the edge, then I guess I am rich … but just in time, even though I can change words and III. Caged: words and ideas. like the tuna sandwich that turns up alter meanings. I am held captive by poetry. Anyway, after going missing two months prior. It’s my little world here, life is short. I need to take the bull by its horns. It’s too bad I can’t turn back time. within the words and emotions. Is this heaven?

40 41 Of Stars and Streetlamps I’m in no hurry. I have nowhere to be. A speck of light holds no office hours, Tess LaLonde, South Burlington needs no days off, has no strict schedule. No schedule at all. The universe is upside down. Unlike this city, I am calm. The lights of the city – Unlike this city, I am quiet. so bright, so dazzling – All sounds are distant. glow below me as I float over the breeze. They echo within me, The galaxy lies beneath, not overhead. yet leave no lasting effect. Above, the inky blackness reigns, I am free, floating on the breeze, dripping down between the buildings, my thoughts mirroring its easy flow. running through the streets, I look at the twinkling lights beneath engulfing all but the brightest of lights. and the empty heavens above. Some lights twinkle, some stand still. The stars were plucked from the sky And some zoom past, and dropped inside the streetlamps. hurrying off to nowhere. The balance has been shifted. Like comets. Or shooting stars. The universe is upside down. I make no wish, have nothing to wish for. Kaighan Murphy, Essex Junction

A New Student Named Tell Kara in third period French Peace her floral top makes her ice-blue eyes pop, Julia Grismore, St. Albans and wish your old chemistry partner good luck in his track meet on Sunday. In hallways, where the vulgar words and sharp glares Spread peace, outweigh the sweet hum of chatter – as thick as your skin must be in the classrooms, to survive the cruelty of society. where rumors spread like wildfire and petty gossip is shared like pencils – Spread peace, this is where peace as loudly as the rock band can find a permanent home. playing in the headphones

of the kid that walks alone Remove the arrogant facade with his head down. and replace it with a friendly gesture that welcomes a guest like the mat Spread peace, laid by your front door. with your paintbrush

dipped in the hopeful wishes Wipe the angry resting-face of a better tomorrow from your gloss-stained pout and coated with the cheerful smiles Nisha Shah, South Burlington and paint on a smile that will soon cover the walls. with that new lip lacquer.

42 43 Wondering and Remembering

Hazel Green, Montpelier

When I see a new friend, I wonder how long I will know them for. I wonder if I will remember them. I wonder if their smiles will always be in my mind and if their laughter will echo in my ears forever. If I will look back at the times when we splashed in the river, the lake, the pool, with water droplets flying. If I will look back and see the sleepovers we had. The giggling, hiding, laughing. If I will remember the secrets we kept. The crushes, jealously, hatred. I wonder if I will remember the long stories we told around big fires, with marshmallows and chocolate plastered on our faces. If I will remember the eye rolls and the plotting we exchanged about the most horrid teachers, and how we could defeat them. I wonder if I will remember our talks about the latest fashions, and if the newest clothing trends looked nice on us. If I will remember our last fights. The crying, sobbing, whispers. The arguments, yelling, lies. I will probably regret most of it, but as the saying goes ... yesterday is the past, tomorrow is the future and today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.

Francesca Richard, St. Albans

Hello, It’s Me “Hello, it’s me. Serena Hanrahan, Randolph Will you be my lab partner? Oh, you’re already with Zack? “Hello, No biggie.” it’s me. “Hello, I’m new here. it’s me. Can you show me around?” Would you be able to give me the “Hello, homework? it’s m— I wasn’t here yesterday. Don’t walk away!” … Or not, that’s okay, “Hello, that works too.” it’s me. “Hello, Can I sit with you at— it’s me.” No? Oh, that’s cool too ...” Shannon MacDonald, Sheldon “Hi! I’m Josephine!”

44 45 A Maiden’s Tale My knees are shaking. I must sit. A head arises from the waves Elizabeth Hardt, Canaan, NH and tosses down droplets gleaming. It turns and regards me with eyes like What sleeps below, I do not know. caves. The water is still and murky deep. I find that I am screaming. No current now, my thoughts are slow – It opens its mouth; out comes a plume like the monster that lies asleep. of black and fiery, smoky doom. A treacherous rock slips beneath my I am burnt to a crisp; I cannot speak. shoe The monster’s breath! Oh, how it reeks. and sets the waters dancing, streaked. So now you know this tale of woe – The great eyes will open very soon, of how a maiden fair and true and I shall find out what sleeps beneath. wanted to know what slept below A great stir from out beyond the lake – and is now a monster’s chew. I take a step back, afraid of it – of what sleeps beneath and is now awake.

Abigail Harkness, Shelburne

The Roof I will not listen. I’m drowning in my mind. Juni Cleary, Burlington Please do not save me. I watch the darkness creep over the I watch as the sunlight dips garage. behind the greenish-gold mountains, It is not a bad darkness, but a reminder: trying to ignore the responsibilities a go-inside-it’s-getting-dark tugging at the back of my mind. type of darkness. I am hypnotized by the roof of my But I do not listen to the lack of light garage, creeping over the garage. but I am not looking at it. I am thinking; darkness does not bother I am staring at it without purpose, me. just resting my eyes on a not-too-bright, When I am thinking lighter thoughts, mesmerizing surface, dotted with bumps. like if I could live on Mars, I am thinking. or what homework is due tomorrow, When I am thinking deep thoughts, it is best not to bother me then, either. like what will happen when I die, For I will not listen to you — or what will happen when the sun I am thinking. Let me be free. explodes, it is best not to bother me. Livia Ball, Essex Junction

46 47 Quiz: Are You a Dreamer or up about it. I’ll just have to let it all go a Believer? and not let them ruin me. I’d rather dwell on other things. Faith Holzhammer, Orwell d. I still love them. I know I can find it in my heart to forgive. 1. People might describe you as…

a. Artistic! You have a knack for 5. (Final question!) What word appeals to putting an idea to paper. you the most? b. Strong-willed. Nobody can tell you a. Love what to think! b. Faith c. Quiet. You keep mostly to yourself c. Peace and your thoughts. d. Hope d. Popular! People love the way you

have faith in everyone. ANSWERS:

Mostly A’s or C’s: Don’t stop dreaming, 2. You like songs that… dreamer! a. Provoke thoughts. Mostly B’s or D’s: Keep on believing, b. Have strong, powerful lyrics. believer! c. Talk about a better world. d. Help you describe who you are and what you believe in. Hair 3. Where do you go when you want to be alone? Elizabeth Magnan, Fairfield a. My room, where I have my iPod Thank you and my notebooks. Writing stories and for telling me listening to music helps me think. that by the time b. Somewhere high above the ground I reached high school where I can see the world that mankind I’d start has made its own. It’s inspiring, really. straightening my hair. c. Somewhere I can see the stars above It made me refuse to for years, me. simply out of spite. d. I don’t like being alone much. I’m It made me compliment usually living life to the max with my every curl I saw friends! because I was determined 4. Someone you loved and trusted has to love my hair supposedly lied or let you down. What is Zoe Maxwell, Burlington and make every girl love hers. going through your mind? Thank you a. I wonder when it all went wrong. for not loving my hair; We were so close ... or so I thought. you made me love it, b. It’s a misunderstanding. I know it even if it was just out of spite was. They would never do anything like for a while. that to me. c. I don’t really feel like getting all worked

48 49 To an Immigrant What does diversity really mean, that meant Girls Who Walk Alone at and does English taste wrong not you. Night Greta Hardy-Mittell, East Middlebury on your tongue, It took an amendment Courtney McDermott, Charlotte and are the blues contagious to set the precedent – When you roll your R’s across cultures? will it take another does it feel like your words Church Street is lit up tonight. Because I wish I could play to drop the deficit? have wings? “It’s only a few blocks to where like Paquito D’Rivera plays, And does the letter eñe Dad said he parked the car,” like Gloria Estefan raps, I have one more question slide off your tongue I try to reassure myself. like my man Lin-Manuel dances, to clear the obfuscation, like ice cream in the heat I wave goodbye to my friends, like my skirt was a mushroom cloud of and no, it is not, that I imagine you grew up with, still eating ice cream inside; fabric What is your name? and do you miss it? the sugar haze of happiness and my hair was a river of black or, Why are you here? has begun to wear off. that never stopped flowing. It is, Who are you – What is the difference to you Is that the rustle of my who are you and who is your father, between refugee and immigrant? backpack on my shoulders, Do you have a hunger to go back, and your grandmother And when I ask you or is someone behind me? or have you landed on the moon and your little sister where you’re from, It’s just my backpack. where you always wanted to live? you’ve never known? what will you answer – Stupid, stupid, stupid. What distinguishes each island? or do those words Everyone knows girls shouldn’t Because on the map Yes, you heard me right: sound dissonant, walk alone at night. they are drops of blood that Who are you? like hopscotch I pass strange men in coats, stained my white sheet And how does it feel on a scalding hot blacktop? my eyes downcast. when I was 5 and woke up to be Every time I pass another girl, I think, with my nose running red – you? Does your last name “How far away will she have to be but back to you. provide a clue to your identity? to not hear me scream?”

(And in parentheses, Stupid, stupid, stupid. Do you remember the pilgrims how does it feel I should have asked a friend to walk and how they came on the Mayflower, when we make assumptions? with me. because you came in May, Because I’m already sorry.) I take my phone out, and was your journey just as hard? pretend to text someone. At least in the 1600s Does vulnerable mean Look, I could call 911 in a second. there was no barbed wire the same thing to everyone? Nope. It’s dead. or border patrol, Should I call you Latin-O, Stupid, stupid, stupid. and the only customs or do you prefer if I use -A or -X, I should have borrowed a charger. were smothered which displaces the vowels Someone is yelling far away. by smallpox blankets. like a child’s body I’m so close to the car, Did they ever call you barbarian? in a full bathtub? a minute more maybe.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The Father said the meek What did it mean Everyone knows what happens shall inherit for you to have a black president, to girls who walk alone at night. but the Fathers said the court and are you afraid of walls, shall reign Supreme, and how can a document – and until O’Connor a piece of paper as light as air – that meant men, have so much weight? and until Sotomayor

50 51 Waterfalls little kids who squeal with delight Flaming City in a seemingly endless city. and my friends, hesitating a little, but one But together, Adelle MacDowell, Johnson Elizabeth Martell, Essex Junction by one they jump to join me, as one collective glow, and some of them scream at the cold, the city was made Dappled sun that finds its way through There was a darkness but soon the water feels perfect – we of beautiful light. the leaves and branches filling the air in their lungs. could stay in all day. draws patterns on my arms, and it is a Yet every time they exhaled, When the first of us starts to shiver, we funny kind of quiet here, the sound they released columns of light resist it, muffled by the rushing waterfalls. into the night sky above them. but it spreads; it’s contagious and soon A little chill creeps up my legs and arms Great smoke stacks spewed Seen in Roanoke our arms and legs are shaking and and I almost, almost give in to the shiver. silver plumes into the distance, Avery McLean, St. George teeth clacking. Blue lips and shivering Toes curl against the slick, moss-black smoke hanging low bodies, we clamber out of the water, rock. Here, a shard of glass from in the rich, dark sky, Today I saw three children, towels spread on the big rock, a beer bottle someone smashed; some flaming flecks of light contrasted they were not much younger than I am desperately trying to soak in the warmth idiot found their way into this sanctuary. against the limitless horizon. – 16, or maybe 17 years old – of the few rays of sun that fall across us. Letting my towel fall from my shoulders, The city was a vast, intricate sleeping under an old concrete bridge. When we’re not soaking anymore, only I take a tiny step forward, labyrinth of tiny lights – Their shoes lay haphazardly next to damp, someone suggests we go in again. deep, black water, cliff undercut and golden man-made stars them, We’re undecided; the hairs on our arms waterfalls tumbling down above. burning like embers, the soles of their tired feet grimy and still stand on end and A log lies across one of the falls – I fallen from the sun. bare. the occasional shiver spasms through us. walked it once, slick and terrifying, but It was as if somebody I thought of how hard, how unforgiving And then the magic words, “Well, I’m only to show off. had taken a fistful of glitter the stone must feel beneath their heads. going in,” cement our resolve Now, voices drift to me over the dull and blown it across the city, Then I walked and we jump, and it’s harder this time, sound of the falls, friends coming. watching as it fell to Earth, in clean shoes and socks and our lips turn blue faster. I got here first, ran all the way along the shimmering and sparkling brightly into an art museum But even as we’re leaving, we yearn for narrow path to be the first one in, with gold and white light. to sit leisurely and look at paintings, more – “We should do this every week,” and now, they’re here. I sat above all of it, to sip some tea and write in my new and Better jump, and fast, the ground below me notebook. “Can’t we stay?” body contradicts me, no, no, no, too alive with dazzling light. But no matter how hard I stared at oil But parents have Things To Do and cold, Roads twisted and snaked on canvas, Places To Be and one last look over our but mind over matter and through the maze of buildings. brush strokes in oranges and pinks, shoulders is all we get. a gasp escapes my lips but is cut off as I Everywhere I looked, all I could see was the dirty, gray One last look at the great, roaring falls is plunge under. millions of shining lights pavement, all we get, Body in a straight line, deep, deeper until sprawled beneath me, a heavy feeling of guilt but it’ll still be there for us – for me, my toes touch the bottom and my hands gleaming brilliantly, and tired heads resting nearly in my backyard, search frantically for a rock to carry up – flickering passionately. in a quiet admission of defeat. only two miles through the woods, not too small In each gleaming light, and for them, not more than a but not too large to swim upward with, I could see thousands of souls 15-minute drive. either. burning brightly. We’ll be back. Got one, and kick hard, head pounding, By themselves, chest aching from holding my breath, the light in their soul break the surface finally, would never be enough laughing, swim to the edge. for the entire city. Now they’re here – moms with packed Alone, they were just lunches and towels, small, insignificant specks

52 53

Casual Racism With a Side I frame Chinese as an insult I was there when you dealt one of many It Was Already 6:30 AM of Language-based Angst against my olive skin, blows Maria Sage, Bradford against my eyes, with a dull axe Lonna Neidig, St. Albans against my 8-year-old self’s inability to to my long forgotten family tree. She was lying in bed; say the letter “R,” I was sitting among tiny, green blades of it was 6:30 AM. against my 5-year-old self’s love for I felt every thwack, grass, pandas, starting at my bruised hip bones listening to a chaotic symphony She had stayed up all night again against my 16-year-old self’s and reverberating to my palpitating of loudspeakers until it was 6:30 AM. appreciation for Chinese culture. heart. and bubbling voices.

Worries still clouded her head, I frame my Chinese as an insult I was sitting under a rosy sky and it was only 6:30 AM. because people asked me how I can see, with golden light because people think my employers are carefully separating the fluffy cotton She believed she’d be able to sleep then, my parents, clouds. but it was already 6:30 AM. because people think I’m “too aggressive,”

because people think I’m “too white.” My twisted fingers picked at the green and tore it apart, I frame my Chinese as an insult watching its string split because saying “hello” in Mandarin and fall under my harsh grip. feels like trying to say “mirror” in the

fourth grade I heard you. while people coaxed my mouth to form I heard you speak in your best worst a proper “R” all over again, English. because saying, “How are you?” in I heard you. Mandarin

feels like evenings before dinner working I was right there. on saying my “R’s” and crying, I was right there when I heard you speak because saying, “You’re welcome” in in your best worst English. Mandarin I was right there. feels like crying in front of my seventh-

grade teachers I know you didn’t think much of it at the over my vandalized homework and time, binder. but years of insults flooded back to me in that instant. I was there when you boiled my culture I wish they came presented on a silver down platter to a combination dinner of General Tso’s labeled in neat cursive chicken, so I could pick how to remember pork fried rice and how to frame being “Chinese.” and an egg roll, with a side of “broken” English I can’t. Illustration – Abrie Howe, Stowe; Photo – Kelly Holt and extra fortune cookies.

54 55 Piano Man A man who, in the face of adversity, Fairy Tales For You never strayed from the truth. Maisie Newbury, Weybridge Rebecca Orten, Middlebury Anna Phelps, Wolcott We called him the “Piano Man,” a name that made him smile. He spoke about the news stories, They called her Rose, Briar Rose. To the tiresome eyes and worried faces, His aged and tired eyes would light up, but it was in a different sort of way, But when she bloomed, they cowered. stuffed together in the smallest of places. piercing through their wire-rimmed making unspeakable tragedies She raised her voice, her petals to the To the flowers that grow around our feet, borders. a little easier to say. sun, and the contemplating heads admitting His lips would curl at the corners Children are dying in their schools. stained scarlet much more than her lips. defeat. in a manner almost juvenile. People are fighting in the streets. So they put her to sleep. To the beautiful people who live in this He told us that we were the future, We hear about it every day They called her Sunshine, world, that the world would be ours in a while. but never ask what’s behind the scenes. and swathed her in golden curls. and the tapping of fingers and hair being He was a man with so much love inside Schools were ravaged by bullets But when she shone, their eyes blistered, twirled. it burst through his fingertips, as he played along and sang, and when she burned, they couldn’t see To the ones who may worry about their spilling out onto the keyboard with and his honeyed voice could be heard through the smoke. complexion, nothing to hide. from miles and miles away. So they locked her in a tower. and the ones who don’t care that much He played all kinds of music about “One man’s trash is another man’s They called her Beauty, for affection. how he couldn’t see the color of his treasure, captivated by her outward projection of To the brave civilians and the ones who eyes… one man’s treasure is another man’s pain, grace. are fighting, his years living in oppression… one man’s pain is another man’s Her beauty was what blinded them and the ones who are bored that make his life after his mother died… pleasure. to the nebula of a mind inside her. things exciting. about life, liberty and the pursuit of And so it goes on that way….” So they shunned her for her uniqueness. To the ones who show up when others happiness. He wore his treasures on his left wrist, They called her Sugar, won’t, The world, he said, was losing herself. bracelets tied up with found stones and skin as rich and deep as chocolate. this poem’s for you and the ones who Today she grows weak from hearing our string. Got through life working twice as hard don’t. cry, His right hand he used to create his as any of them, and before we reduce her further, music, and succeeded through flavors of we must examine what’s inside. unburdened by heavy stone rings. triumph and tears of salt. What’s behind the scenes He said his left hand was for decoration So they told her she’d never make it. of these horrible things? – for protecting and for holding. They called her Glass, What is wrong? What does it mean? His right hand, though, was for calluses but she was only fragile, never breakable Sitting at his keyboard, – for playing, for writing, for working. – even through losing everything and he looks for the answers alongside us. And every night he told us stories walking on shards, of his life before the war: she bore the pain and held up her head. before gay marriage, before civil rights, So they reduced her to ashes and abuse. before all that’s worth fighting for. They called her Harmony, He sang songs from the chain gangs. with a song as thunderous as the sea, He sang jazz, he sang blues, each note crashing onto them like waves and for a moment we forgot onto the shore. who we were listening to. And every ocean storm stopped to listen. A man who knew everything, So they took away her voice. who fell down and still flew.

56 57 Another Way to Fly A Mother’s Love Night Drives Train Song II

Leo Powers, Richmond Sarah Immel, Yakima, WA Megan Knudsen, South Burlington Julia Scott, St. Albans

Rain drizzles down, In all this world, Headlights skim the landscape, The trains linger over my shoulder at leaving everything soaked, stained, there is one thing I know for sure – showing off Night’s shy, rolling figure. night, darkened by thunderclouds. the feel of your palm against mine, The speakers drip with soft enthusiasm, their calls ringing out in the dark. cradling my fingers surrounding eager ears The trains have been there for me. The air is thick, as a rosebud carefully cradles as Night settles down. so thick that life her delicate center. The velvety yellow on the road I listen for the trains slows down, I am too old now for hugs and kisses reflects into my eyes, at night when they are awake chilled to brittle bones. and I no longer fit in your lap, causing my eyelids to dance in the shadows and the cold. but I will never outgrow as they shut out the bright lines – They sing to pass the time The fluorescent bulb flickers, the softness of your palm only wanting to see the black of Night, from one town to the next. casting hollow light on thin pages (weathered though it may be). only wanting to see the music’s colors I like to think the trains and cold silence Your fingers are my anchor scrawled across the dashboard. sing old bluegrass ballads. over the empty room. in a stormy sea; A sense of serenity blankets me, your wrist the humble nest and my mind fills with melodies I have heard the trains cry. On days like this to which my hand must return as the miles tick by. It was a loud and mournful sound, I stop to feel, night after night after night. The darkness shivers as the bass shakes, a passionate lament. letting the cold rain Until the stars fall away bouncing off the cold glass. And I wondered, half awake, into my soul and the seas disappear, The Night trembles as the treble what they were saying, so that it might your arms will remain my home. drowns into the leather seats. and what weighed on their souls. always be with me. I know there must be a day The harmonies slow and the wheels What does it mean when the rose’s petals wither and fall, accelerate, that I live in a world Gray clouds weigh down the sky but for now, please hold my hand gnawing on the road, spitting back where trains can cry? and I’m only closer to flying. just a little longer. rubber and lost lyrics. I need you, you know. The voices falter, rhythms smooth into silence, and the movement slows to a stop. I reach a familiar street and find my way back home.

58 59 The Nature of Thought

Riely Amerosa, Underhill

There’s a large rock wall a few hundred yards behind my house. The climb is hard, full of thorns and sharp rocks, but the view from the top is well worth it. I climb. Halfway up I look out on my home, my yard, the trees. In the distance, I can see the great mountain of Vermont, the one larger than the rest: Mansfield. At the top of the rock wall there is a boulder. We sit in silence, the mountain and I, wondering what the other is thinking. I can see far. I see the trees that cover the mountain, the snow that covers the trees, the sunlight that covers it all. I’ve always wondered if we can see wind. When there is a tornado, we just see the dust and debris that the wind picks up, but do we see the wind itself? I see the wind move the trees, but I struggle to see the wind move itself. It rushes by my face, filling my senses for a brief moment and closing me off from the world. That moment can last minutes, or seconds; it depends on my state of mind. I look down at my hands, rough and dirty from the climb. I wipe them on my jeans and then shove them down into the warmth and safety of my pockets. Taking a deep breath, I feel my body sucking in the cold mixture of nitrogen and oxygen around me. It warms it up, changes it and puts something else back into the world. I close my eyes and listen. The best way to describe the sound is a culmination of life: birds, leaves, wind, people, animals, insects. I sense them all putting forth their own sounds and auras. Even the silent stones hold energy, lying dormant since their creation. It may never be used, but energy will always be stored there. I think about thought and the act of thinking. My neurons fire, allowing me to think about neurons firing. Wild. I start the climb down the rock face, guided by the footholds and handholds I’ve been using for years. They are familiar to me and me alone. Maybe someday someone else will become familiar with this rock face — its crevices, its cracks. I Alexandra Contreras-Montesano, Burlington wonder how long it will take before this happens, for someone else to discover what this rock face has shown me. Two years? Twenty? Never? What if I am the first and last person to find himself atop this rock wall? What if someone was here before me? What if, some time ago, someone found themselves atop this rock ledge, and they thought my exact thoughts? Did they also wonder if there would ever be another soul to know these handholds, know these footholds? I lower myself down the stone wall, farther and farther from the top, the bottom approaching. That’s the thing about life: With every regression, there is progression, may it be good or bad.

60 61 TINY WRITES If I fell for you, In their world, I am too quiet. you would take my heart In my world, I am too loud. The year’s best Tiny Writes – tiny musings in 500 characters or less from and say, “You never had a chance.” What am I in this world? youngwritersproject.org – and the online usernames of the authors — Rubber Soul Whose world is this world? — g_rob02 Underneath everything, what if you’re If you extend your head to the sky Are we still ourselves if we restrict our just like me? and whisper thank you, every behavior to make us like ourselves I shudder – 10 more dead kids. — adalet the sun will light up your face better? And which is us – the one held — SilverGoose with grace. back or the one doing the holding back? — sophie.d I don’t think other families — Fiona Ella I can’t morph into a cloud keep their green cards in the car if I’m just a rock, just in case they’re pulled over Wipe your smile from my lips. My bus hurries past flags at half mast, just like I can’t dream by ICE. — Drift and I can’t help but wonder if I don’t have a destiny. — Nightheart if they’re there for — Anna P. Last night was lit, and I wrote a poem California, Sometimes the most beautiful things about it. The moon was blood red, and Santa Fe, Don’t we all love the little hunks of metal aren’t even real, like the glimmer on the there was heat lightning overhead. The Georgia that claim to rearrange our teeth? mermaid’s tale I saw when the glittering fireflies flashed. The birds dashed. This is or Indiana. — nean_bean emerald waves crested. a true story. The night was full of glory. — Icarus Blackmore — Hannah Campbell — You know who Ticks and fleas are the bouncers of the Like speaking to a butterfly, woods. This planet — sburnse We cleaned up the kitchen, the floor and or shouting at a moth, needs humans the dining room table, only to prepare all you can do as much as dinner, wear our shoes inside, and spread is make sounds I don’t understand, I’ve gone from wanting to own a humans need out our homework once more. and all I can do cupcake shop to wanting to be an FBI tails. — jbird18 is listen. agent. — Marina2020 — Michmich Is this growing up? — piper A swing in the sun is the best place to I think maybe I should have... read the letter you find in the mailbox. — lila woodard — H20.hollym

Even if you’re only a few moments late, The time has come. you miss the boat. A small mistake, yet For what? Who knows? PLEASE SUPPORT YOUNG WRITERS the boat sails on without you, and you To take a leap of faith, maybe. are helpless, with no way of catching it. Young Writers Project is a 501(c)3 nonprofit that provides its programs to young To fly. people at little or no cost. Donations are tax deductible and we gratefully accept And suddenly, you’re left behind. — BloodMoon825 contributions. Please send any amount you are comfortable with to: — Harper the Lee Young Writers Project I have to face the dragon. 47 Maple St., Suite 216 Do you ever get that feeling that — Rovva someone you love just isn’t there Burlington, VT 05401 anymore? We’re not the kind of ghosts you think To donate online, go to youngwritersproject.org/support, and for more information, Yeah, me, too... we are. please contact YWP Executive Director Susan Reid, [email protected]; (802) 324-9538 — Nicole Jasmin — Love to write

62 63 Writers and Artists

Adam, Hawa ...... 34 Katon, Aly ...... 17 Aikman, Samantha ...... 26 Keeton, William ...... 24 Amerosa, Riely ...... 60 Kimber, Will ...... 17 Anzali, Narges ...... 28 Knudsen, Megan ...... 59 Austin, Elliott ...... 28 LaLonde, Tess ...... 19, 43 Baker, Joshua ...... 6, 23 Lavigne, Taylor ...... 9 Ball, Livia ...... 29, 47 Lee, Michelle...... 39 Bauer, Eden Anne ...... 8 MacDonald, Shannon ...... 18, 45 Blankenbaker, Isa ...... 29 MacDowell, Adelle ...... 52 Brightman, Naomi ...... 30 Magnan, Elizabeth ...... 49 Brott, Caleb ...... 21 Mancuso, Cassidy ...... 22 Bundock, Erin ...... 41 Margulius, Holly ...... 13 Cannizzaro, Sophia ...... 37 Markley, Neelie ...... front cover, 8 Carbee, Lindsey...... 25 Martell, Elizabeth ...... 53 Chase, Hailey ...... 33 Maxwell, Zoe ...... 4, 9, 39, 48 Chisamore, Gabby ...... 30 McDermott, Courtney ...... 51 Civalier, Hazel ...... 36 McIntosh Barkdoll, Janet ...... 16 Clair, Madison ...... 39 McLean, Avery ...... 53 Cleary, Juni ...... 46 Michael, Luke ...... 31 Contreras-Montesano, Alexandra ...... 11, 61 Murphy, Kaighan ...... 42 Crainich, Hugo ...... 35 Neidig, Lonna ...... 54 Czekaj, Nicolina ...... 33 Newbury, Maisie ...... 56 Daigle, Kelly ...... 38 Nichols, Javan ...... 10 Dauerman, Sophie ...... 15 Omar, Balkisa ...... 34 Dery-Roystan, Shayle ...... 13 Orten, Rebecca ...... 57 Domingue, Abigayle ...... 9 Patel, Saia ...... 40 Doucet, Anna...... 18 Phelps, Anna ...... 57 Fickes, Rachel ...... 31 Powers, Leo ...... 58 Ginawi, Lena ...... 34 Reeve, Hope ...... 37 Glueck, Lucy ...... 14 Richard, Francesca ...... 23, 44 Goodman, Fiona ...... 26 Robert, Iris ...... 19 Green, Hazel ...... 45 Sage, Maria ...... 55 Gregory, Dan ...... 38 Scott, Julia ...... 59 Grismore, Julia ...... 42 Shah, Nisha ...... 43 Gustafson, Hanna ...... 24 Sherwin, Jillian ...... 25 Haji, Gamana ...... 36 Shookenhuff, Ada ...... back cover Hall, Sofia ...... 13 Smith, Marlie ...... 21 Hanrahan, Serena ...... 44 Staats, Ella ...... 12 Hardt, Elizabeth ...... 47 Stoll, Ben ...... 10 Hardy-Mittell, Greta ...... 50 Testorf, Anna ...... back cover Harkness, Abigail ...... 37, 46 Trage, Emily ...... 15 Harrison, Delaney ...... 20 Usherwood, Sophie ...... 23 Holt, Kelly ...... 55 Waqar, Kiran ...... 34 Holzhammer, Faith ...... 49 Wonder-Maez, Shyloh ...... 22 Howe, Abrie ...... 55 Woodard, Lila ...... 20 Hunt, Alaena ...... 32 Wootten, Nora ...... 16 Immel, Sarah ...... 58 Young, Sara ...... 27

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