Manitou

EditorsLizzy Bauserman Margaret ClarkKrista GrendzeAbby RangaswamiIona WagnerSierra Witham

Faculty AdvisorChuck Wagner

Art AdvisorJoe Cancilla

Technical AdvisorJ.D. Ferries-Rowe

Layout and PublicationClaire Roudebush

Table of ContentsPoetryDaughter to Father by Sierra Witham 4Window by Kristie Legue 6The Dancer by Abby Rangaswami 7The Morning After by Kaitlyn DeVeydt 9Dancing Birds by Krista Grendze 11The Figure Five by Margaret Clark 12The Four Seasons by Elise Shea 14We Linger in Dusk by Lizzy Bauserman 15Snake Ceiling by Sierra Witham 18India by Abby Rangaswami 20A Mother’s Impression by Margaret Clark 22China Painting by Iona Wagner 24Caught by Elise Shea 26The Doll House by Iona Wagner 27Medusa by Krista Grendze 29The Doll by Kaitlyn DeVeydt 31Self-Portrait by Lizzy Bauserman 32The Vagrant by Kaitlyn DeVeydt 34Cookout in Arcadia, IN by Sierra Witham 36The Hostess by Kristie Legue 37The Garbage Man by Margaret Clark 39The Corner Clarinetist by Iona Wagner 40

The Amputee by Elise Shea 42ProsePerfect Sky by Iona Wagner 44Mrs. Scott by Margaret Clark 49Daisies by Krista Grendze 52Polished by Sierra Witham 55A Friday Night by Abby Rangaswami 61The Lot by Lizzy Bauserman 65ArtworkHippie Skull by Gabby Torres CoverSkeleton and Nature by Betsy Bennett 3Nevermore by Claire Culbert 10We Will Become Sillhouettes by Megan Howell 17Aztec Art by Pablo Garcia de Quevedo 30American Horror Story by Kallen Ruston 35Man in Blue by Margaret Clark 41No-Man’s-Land by Margaret Clark 43Aurora by Gemma Baugh 48 Fitzpleasure by Megan Howell 60The Photographer by Kurt Barbara 69

Betsey Bennett

POETRY

Daughter to FatherInspired by This Will Destroy You’s “Quiet”

Your eyes stab me as you search forthe girl who once stared with adorationwhile your chubby thumbplucked a bass stringof a beige guitar,the girl who onceskimmed the scalesof salmon you caughton starless June nightswith the back of herindex finger, the fingerI now point at your chest.

If the accusations could crawlpast my itching throat, they would shout that I am nota reminder of your ex-wifeand the way her head tiltedback when she laughedat your smutty stories,the way her big toe dabbedthe skin of the calm Atlanticwhile you spectated fromthe shade of a dock, your earscuffed with headphones,your mouth lip-syncing the lyrics ofanother REO Speedwagon song.

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I am not a passenger to rideshotgun in your stuffy truck,my peewee picture affixed to the dashboard so it lingers over the flickering digital clock.And I am not a topic of conversationat a small-town coffee shop,not bragging material for the boysbetween sips of lukewarm decaf.

Sierra Witham

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WindowInspired by “Someone Like You” by Adele

Drops of water blur my sight as I watchthrough my cracked kitchen window, where onceI observed my daughters jumping from puddle to puddle,splashing each other in their pink floral bootsand slick yellow rainsuits as they screamed with joy.

I’ve seen them sprinting with neighborhood friends,collapsing with laughter and then chasing each other,as though the day would never end.

They kept running, farther and farther awayuntil I could no longer see them,but, today, they walk towards me, dressedin pearls and silk blouses. I watchas they strut with a husband on one armand a child on the other.

Kristie Legue

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The DancerInspired by Renoir’s The Dancer

Delicate rose satinsnakes up my thick ankles,providing supportfor swollen feet.

Voluptuous tulle gatheredand cinched with a cerulean ribbonfashions a bouquet floatingaround my plump waist,and instantly, I am graced withthe body of a dancer.

Powdered with layers ofmakeup, my face glowswith a clear complexion.

Sweeping my untamed bushelinto a tight bun, I secure a bowat the crown, exposing my now sculpted shoulders.

Contorting my svelte figure to the side, I prop my head and curve my back,a posture imparting poise.

My mind, cluttered with personalcritique, reminds me to hold the handkerchiefas if I were too weak to lift a finger.

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Drained from thestruggle for still perfection, I try to conceal the exhausted stare that betraysmy discomfort until the camera snapsfor the finale, and a sense of relief rolls over me.

Abby Rangaswami

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The Morning After

Envy clutches my chest as the rays tangle around your body. I pull you into me and outof the light’s reach, the apartment darkeningas I draw your pomegranate lips into mine. Suddenly,the wind twirls your hair, brushing it from your face. Heatsurges within me, and I fly from our bed to shut the window,but the wind bangs on the glass, begging for your glance. As I slide back into bed, your eyes flutter open, the coloredrings ensnare me. Your hands push against my chest, strugglingto break free from the sheets’ grip. Your foot collideswith the cold touch of the wood floor, and you slide the windowopen. As you bathe in the light of day, your mouth curves into a smile. I watch the wind lead you backto bed, the sun encircling your face as you near me.Our noses graze, and the warmth of your breath softens my skin. I melt into you, our bodies intertwining into imperfect shapes, that fit like puzzle pieces.

Kaitlyn DeVeydt

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Claire Culbert

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Dancing BirdsInspired by Degas’s Dance Class at the Opera

We stretch our legs into wingsthat will fly us across the roomin our skirts made of clouds rather than chiffon, andwith annoyance, we watchthe fluttering of a few stray hairsmoving in the breeze created by the dancers who glide across the floor.We gather around the lone violinist and our teacher who shoutsout the next move, a pirouette or arabesque,that we must execute in a split second.

Our instructor reminds usthat this training will decideif we fly or flounder,for training at the opera is only for birds of grace,and dancers who have the making of swans,can easily become sparrowswith clipped wings from a single mistake.

Krista Grendze

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The Figure FiveInspired by the painting “I Saw The Figure 5 In Gold” by Charles Demuth

I see the figure 5 approach,that unattached snippet of sequencethat haunts mysleep and tollsthe time of my waking,set in the blue hues ofcandy wrapperscrunched beneaththe balls of feet.

5’s shift gruffly underthe stinging glareof the street’snumbered lamps.They squirm andjostle in never ceasingmovement.But I stop,paralyzed by theuncertainty of my own direction,stock-stillon the painted asphalt.

On which detailof this street,the indefatigable clamorof this nocturnal cityscape,should I fix my eyes?What purpose does this

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scene obscure to mewhere one hint of significance hidesnight after night?

The figure 5 approachesand takes mewhere I stand,as waveringin dreaming as in waking.

Margaret Clark

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The Four SeasonsInspired by Antonio Vivaldi’s violin concertos

The violinist’s finale infusesthe calm air with quivering chords.I’m floating on spring melodiesas we snap photographs, ignoringthe staccato click-claps of my mother’s heels, too sporadic to keeptime with the echoing song.

The Tuesday evening’s summer glow settles softly on the gothic ridges of Saint Chapelle.Guards mutter directions as we saunterthrough the courtyard, drunkon presto rain droplets.

Three policemen in heavy blackgarb, loom ahead, leaning on gold gates. I turnto catch my last glimpse of red, fading orange,stained-glass windows. Impatient, the men shift their guns, as we drag our feet under the arch.

Forced onto the commoner’s gray concrete, cold vibrations seep through my black strapped sandals.While the sun cowers behindgroomed trees, we cross the vacantstreet, sobered and silent.

Elise Shea

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We Linger in Dusk

Sailing from my outstretched hand,the scarred, dirty disk lands safely within his grasp.I watch, amazed, as he effortlessly snatches it from the air,flips it over, and arcs it across the yard.

He towers above mewith foreign maturityand certainty in every motion.

Captivated by his dexterity, I misplace my attentionas the oncoming disk hurtles toward my face.The white blur catches my eye, and I throwup my hands, flinching backwards.

Cheeks burning, I turn to retrieve the discarded plastic,lingering to give myself time to recover. Straightening again,I flip it too far to the right of my partner,who catches it anyway.

Sweat clings to the tussles of hair just above our necks,yet the warmth seeps from our bare arms,drawn away with the sun’s coming eclipse at the horizon.

In reverence we observe the quiet,staring each other down,and our mother’s voice slices our world,warning us of our impending curfew.

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At last we retreat, chased away bymosquitos and the late anthem of cicadas,but neither one of us dares to break the spellcast upon the yard by dusk and the death of day.

Lizzy Bauserman

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Megan Howell

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Snake CeilingOn May twelfth of 2008, an earthquake in China’s Sichuan province caused approximately 900,000 deaths. An estimated 5,000 of these deaths consisted of children who were victimized by shoddily built schools. Responding to government officials’ refusal to release information on the tragedy, artist Ai Weiwei created a serpentine sculpture composed exclusively of backpacks to commemorate the deceased schoolchildren. This poem was inspired by Ai Weiwei’s Snake Ceiling sculpture.

The backpacks coil around the ceiling,clinging to each other like a toddler gripped his mother’s leg on the first day of school.

His scrawny limbs and quivering lipspleaded for her to stay and shield him fromthe teacher with no crinkles around her eyes,the stocky boys who craved more than the ricein their paper sacks, and the shock thattrapped him between crimson stained splinters.

Beneath the lights of this museum, his backpackhovers adjacent to the bag of an architect’sdaughter, its nametag tucked into a front pocket.

She roamed the smoggy streets in her favoriteyellow dress, dreaming of the day she’dsqueeze into a silky, red qipao,the day her father would clench his teethas he interlocked his arm with hers.

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And despite the echoes of screamsthat never escape their eardrums,despite the quake that shattered their district, their family, and their future,the parents find comfort in knowingthis snake’s skin will never shed.

Sierra Witham

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India

Sleeping peacefullyconstrained in a car seat, I awaken to my father’s announcement of our arrival.

Less than thrilled to be inthe land of mint julepsand horse races, I stumblefrom the car onto the steep driveway.

There they are, fastenedlike flowerboxes to the front stepsat the top of the hill.

My Avva,arrayed in a tattered rose cardiganand adorned with lavish gold chains,greets me with a gentle embrace. MyTha- Tha, stern and rigid, refuses any show of unseemly emotion.

As I drift towardthe kitchen, I am overcome with the familiar scents of cumin, chili, and coriander.

A scarred cherrytable displays a plethora of comfort food: plumpidli, tangy tomato chutney,and buttery crisp

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dosa.

I wait for Tha- Thato recite the prayer for our last supper.

The Hindu words, so familiar, run through my mind,the perfect soundtrack to this occasion. I absorb the essence of every scent and sound in the hush of the final words: “Shanti, Shanti, Shanti.”

Abby Rangaswami

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A Mother’s Impression

As we sat, calves crossedand fists knotted under our chins,my mother turned each glossy pageof the book of art,The Masterpiecesof the Impressionists.

She took her time, her thumband fingertip squeaking as she rubbedthe corner of the page,laying each work to rest,when we understoodthat thin, flitting strokes createda jumbled poppy field,that only deep golden mustard could colora cathedral’s face in early afternoon,and that shadows of purple and navy best suited its complexion at night fall.

It was easy to be caught up in theseblurred party scenes made romanticas the artists’ eyes panned their surroundings,preserving the moment in color.

As we carefully cut out our choices,my eyes explored the mood,the brushstrokes, the importanceof the wind in the woman’s petticoats as she stood gazing from the hill, about to turnto answer her son,

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or the way that Cassatt’s girlsprawled in the big blue chair, legs spreadand back slouched,like I did, when no one was thereto reprimand, and I jotted downthe moment in words on blue lines.

Later I would grow enamored with the patterned waves of Van Gogh’s brush, then the buzzing typefaceof a novel. But I still remember those first paintings. The amberfields, the summer hats,and the delicate dancing feet.

Margaret Clark

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China PaintingInspired by Renoir’s Portrait of Mademoiselle Irène Cahen d’Anvers

I watch as Maman teacheslittle Elizabeth how to paint in pastelshades on china teacupsnear the neatly trimmed boxwoodhedges that line the back garden:

hedges planted by my grandfather—a stout Jewish man with an affinityfor asters and hydrangeas. But that wasbefore Father opened the bankand the Cahen d’Anvers’ became rich,when my days were filled with lively jauntsin the Parc Monceau, and I wasn’t forcedto sit for portraits on our manicured lawn.

If Maman wasn’t so preoccupied with Elizabeth, she’d be cross with me.The corner of my left cheek feelsburnt from afternoon sunshining through the leaves of the Linden treethat only shade my long red hairand pale blue bow.

My white stockings are stained from the cool grass,and I tuck my legs under my petticoatsas Maman hands me a blank teacup.

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I stain it with the dark green of hedges,the light purple of asters,the pale blue of hydrangeas.

Iona Wagner

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Caught

Her hand twists the brassdoorknob, igniting a flameunder her chest, bubblesof adrenalin pop in her skull.The door is never unlocked.

The stench of soggy orange chicken clenches her throat as she creeps inside.Frenzied eyes scan black granitecountertops covered in egg roll wrappersand scour the kitchen for one hint of familiarity before settlingon their engagement photograph.

Her stare twitches. Two flimsypapers rest against the frame: fortunes.As red flares beneath her freckled cheeks,she slinks past the bottle of merlot perchedon the Steinway, following the red polo,silk panties, dark wash jeans.

She pauses outside the bedroom doorway,an inhalation of pleasant memories,cut short. Swinging the door inward, she exhalesand watches as shock pales his face, his handssmoothing the wrinkles of his wool sweater, while laundry overflowsonto rose patterned sheets.

He tests two steps forward,offering the half glass of wine.

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Elise SheaThe Doll House

Three thirty.In this quiet bedroom, a womanwatches with a tight smileas wool twists around a wooden wheellike the corn snake on her garden trellishidden amongst indigo morning gloriesand trumpet vine.

Two twenty-five.In the music room,the daughter’s brunette brow furrows while her fingers waltz across an ebonyfingerboard. She sways gently, and the celloglides with heras the melody shifts to an elegyshe dedicates to the olive shag carpet,withered under the weight of stringed instruments andher black slippers.

Five forty.The family prays around a dark cherry tablewhile, above them, a golden chandelier casts yellow light that wraps around their headslike a halo.

This is a dream house—outfitted with a child’s train set,three pianos,and a spinning wheel.After ten years of meticulous work,

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nothing is overlooked.

Butthe family was never there,and each clock has stopped at a different time.

Iona Wagner

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Medusa

All I hear is the smoothgliding of scalesagainst skin,squirming knotsthat will never untangle.

The tears I try to repress roll down my cheeksand turn topebbles, cold and hardas my gaze that petrifieseven the most innocentto lumps of granite and marble.

Do they know I wasalive and human as theybefore proudAthena and her watchful owlcast me down for themost forgivable of sins?I was not to blame for the sea god’s lust.What do those heroes know of wisdom,if their own supposed patron,cannot wield power properly?

Krista Grendze

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Pablo Garcia de Quevedo

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The Doll

Shimmering remains of blush coatthe creases of my fingers. A doll’s reflection peers back at me. I watch herpaint a pink grin on white-washedskin, her marbled eyes encircledby prickly black lashes. “Ugly,”

“Worthless,” “Nobody” sneerthe beauties that pass me,their plastic hardening with every mealskipped or purged, and every strand straightened.

A current of tearscorrodes my painted skin, and when I peerat the mirror, I see the doll’sporcelain face melting like wax.

Kaitlyn DeVeydt

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Self PortraitInspired by Frida Kahlo’s painting, The Frame

The crossover of coloris a welcome flaw;I know no boundariesas I paint the world’s beautyto adorn my own.

Nature has its pinks, its radiantreds and golds, all coming to lifein the exotic plumage of birds,the loud petals of lush flowers.

My magnificence lies in my blood-blushedcheeks, my striking black brow.My cheekbones, sculpted and distinct,give pause to sudden glances,a forced consideration of my greatness.

My brush lingers only on the frame. I know my beauty;it is static, perpetual.No one knows the beauty of nature,always shifting, impressionable.

I am resilient, dependable;no rain can dampen my color,no wind bend my stalk.I never migrate;my form is my temple.

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As others find strength in my form,I, too, build my memoryfrom water and dye.Despite my portrait’s early perfection,strokes of a flower appear in my hair,garnish my figure.Fanciful shapes cannot rival my face;I add them in mockery of their nature,a celebration of my liberation.

Lizzy Bauserman

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The Vagrant

Coins clunking and clanking mockme, worthless chump change rubbedbetween fat pasty fingers. They smooth down black tailored suits and throwspare pieces of metal at my shoeless feet. “My last quarter,” they scoff,yanking out the cross chain from undertheir dark button-up. “Good men”

echoes around them, and I snatchup these discarded tokens. The light reflecting off Washington’s nose almostwarms my sunken cheeks. I pressthe coin to my lips and for a moment,let the wealth seep into my skin.

Kaitlyn DeVeydt

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Kallen Ruston

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Cookout in Arcadia, IN

The September breeze skimsmy arms as I saunter toward a camo lawn chair, one of twelvescattered around the fire pit.

Warmed by sunlight seepingbetween branches of a coffee nut tree,I catch chatter of high school football over the locusts’ songuntil my sister says grace:“God bless the holy ghost; whoever eats the fastest gets the most.”

But we linger in our places,some smirking at those stuck in thewrath of smoke as coral cumulus clouds accompany the sun to the soybean field horizon.

The first to fill their plastic plates,my cousins chomp on ribs like savages while I revel in redpotatoes and roasted carrots.A neighbor’s mutt begs for scraps,and, after a couple cans of cold beer,Pappy decides his chocolate eyes merit more than a few bones.

I ask Pappy, “Do you have a recycling bin?”He retorts, “Yeah, it’s called ‘fire.’”We banter until the light is not sufficientto make out the proud red on our necks.

Sierra Witham37

The Hostess

Hurrying towards the door, I greeta middle-aged couple on their Wednesdayevening date.

I escort them to a small faux-leather boothand place laminated menus and folded linens on the table, telling them to enjoy their dinner beforeI walk away to sit until I’m needed.

Customers trickle in as I listen to the bus boy’s complaints of children who drop more French fries and chicken fingers onto the carpet than into their mouths.

Uninterested, I look around,imagining each customer’s story.

The old man at the bar dreams of the day his belovedwill beat breast cancerand return home.

The couple in the booth, once smitten, now hold their marriage by a thread, struggling to figure each other out.

But, my favorites are the women at the barwho meet every day for drinks.They lounge around all day,relying on their husbands’ hard earned money,and when not at home, they rendezvous with friends just like them.

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They schmooze over new Jimmy Choos and Prada handbags. After a coupleglasses of wine, their laugher echoes throughout the cozy restaurant as they gossip to the owner about their perfect lives.

I dream of the day when I’ll be at a local restaurant, wondering what the young hostesses will make of me. What will my story be?

But my thoughts are cut shortby the creak of the dooras a new couple emergesfrom the bitter cold. Kristie Legue

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The Garbage Man

Malodorous fumes slitherbetween the slits inthe loose metal plating. They fillthe soles of my black buckled boots and stew in the threadsof my overcast clothing. My bones jolt and snap backand forth to the rhythmof this metal mammoth’s rompdown the alleyway.

The angled rubber treadsrumble in creaking succession,sinking into potholes and lumbering overasphalt mounds.

I dismount and heavethe stretched black plastic sacsinto the truck’s cavernous throat adding to thisjumbled bowl of leftovers.Back hatch closed,the beast gurgles andgrowls through cartons of clotted milkand heaps of junk mail,the greedily devoured debrisof breakfast.

Margaret Clark

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The Corner Clarinetist

That boy with the trumpet shouldn’t play“West End Blues”—not like that.His pale blue shirt is too well-ironed,and no jazz player can get enoughair with a collar that stiff.

My hands wind around the dull silver keysof my clarinet. Its slim black body hasaged better than mine, and I smile as I touchmy lips to a dry reed.

That boy on the corner doesn’t knowa thing about the blues. Either you grinor you don’t; melancholy can’tshow in anything but your eyes and your music.

I’m playing along with him, but he’s toobusy puffing his cheeks like Dizzy Gillespie to notice.As he tries to muddy the clarinet solo, too, I steptowards him, taking over verse.

When he finally sees me, the sharp toneof his shined trumpet stops. His dark eyes reflect the morning sun like new 33s, and, with shaking hands, he lowers the instrumentto his side and smiles.

Iona Wagner

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Margaret Clark

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The Amputee

The doorframe supportsa teetering crutch. A foothops away, each print darkerwith heat that clingsto the pale, wood floor.

Rooted in the center, she standson a calloused foot. Frizzy,auburn hair struggles againstthe claws of her bun. A whitehospital bracelet encirclesher withered wrist, brushingthe knot of jean below her hip.

Dust specks dancein the single ray slipping through the cracked window.Her cold fingers rise to twirlin the sparkles, and she feels her leglift into an arabesque: calf tight,knee locked, toes pointed. The cornersof her lips curve, cracking the statuesqueface. Warmth rouges her marblecheeks, but with a swish,

the untied knot dropsand the weightless leg crashesonto the spring floor. Fingers fall limp. The light shifts, a spotlighton the singular steel crutch.

Elise Shea

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Margaret Clark

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Prose

Perfect Sky

From the time she’d met him, she’d loved him. At her grandparents’ summer home in the South, Alice distinctly remembered running through the brown grasses just past the back garden of the estate, stalks towering above her forehead like thin, tanned fingers reaching for the skyline, pulling at the blueness that stretched indefinitely past the horizon. She also spent most of those summers lying on the dirt (much to her mother’s chagrin) and examining that blissfully perfect sky that never greyed, never faded. It was every bit as vibrant as her mother’s favorite indigo dress and every bit as durable as her woolen winter coat. It was imaginative and bright but reliable too. And, that perfect sky was Jean Bonfils.

He loved impressionist painting just as she did, loved Debussy and Satie just as she did, and wrote novels in his spare hours, just as she did. His personality outshined hers in charm and kindness, and his eternal optimism was something admirable. But, just as he was artistic and gentle, so was he intellectual and level-headed. He was well-read in philosophy and mathematics, and he debated magnificently. Predictably, he was one of the most sought after lawyers in Paris—that was how they’d formally met.

Her sister’s husband had died young of a very sudden illness, and, blinded with grief, Brigitte’s mother-in-law had suspected foul play. Jean had met with the two sisters in his second-floor office and seemed to understand the complexity of the case with only a few words from Brigitte, who was endlessly dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a rose-patterned handkerchief, trying, and failing miserably, to avoid the lace border. After the meeting had ended and Brigitte had left for her apartment, Jean invited Alice to a café for tea.

They sat at petite wooden chairs facing the road. She reached over to put her green tea down on the table that separated the two.

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“Thank you, again, for helping Brigitte,” she murmured, slightly readjusting the small bouquet of violets she’d pinned to the brim of her hat.

He nodded. “You’re most welcome. To be frank, it’s a fairly simple case. She has a very clear alibi. That sort of business with her mother-in-law is unfortunate though. It’s sad to see family turn upon each other, especially in grief.”

Alice smiled slightly. “I know. I’m sure as soon as everything’s sorted out, old Madame Jenolan will forgive my sister. She’s just very sad, you know.”

“Yes, of course.” He turned his face towards the quiet road. Alice nibbled on a chocolate macaroon. “Well, I suppose—.”“I was—oh, I beg your pardon; I didn’t mean to interrupt.”She tried not to blush as she looked down at her lavender

skirt. “Oh, it’s all right. I didn’t have anything to say really.”“If you say so—I was just going to ask what brought you to

Paris.”Alice raised her head and met Jean’s hazel eyes. “My

parents own an apartment near the Seine, and they said I could stay whenever I liked once I’d turned eighteen. And, I’m twenty this next month, so, um . . . how exactly did you know that I’ve just come to Paris?”

He smiled. “I’ve only left the boundaries of Paris twice in my life. As great in size as this marvelous city is, I’d have seen you at some point. And, if you’ll forgive any impropriety, I don’t often forget faces as lovely as yours.”

She knew her face was quickly becoming an alarming shade of red, but she forced herself to maintain eye contact. “I’m flattered.”

“Your manner—it reminds me of a song by Debussy,” he added before taking a small sip of citrus tea.

The tension between the two seemed to ease, and Alice found herself laughing lightly, “A song? How so?”

“Are you familiar with “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair”?”She nodded.

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“I’m glad. Well, obviously your hair is blond in color, but, as I said, it’s your manner, really. You’re quiet and understated, but your mind constantly seems to be turned to something very beautiful and ethereal.”

She smiled gently. “You’re very kind.”He shrugged. “Whether or not it’s for the best, I tend to

speak my mind.”“I think it’s a very admirable quality.”“Now I’m flattered;” he looked to a small silver pocket watch

he retrieved from his green waistcoat pocket. He frowned as he examined the time, but his voice didn’t sound the least bit rushed. “It would seem that I’m already late.” He called for the waiter.

Alice’s face fell. They’d only just begun to get along, and, suddenly, he was leaving. “I’m terribly sorry I’ve kept you, Monsieur Bonfils.”

“No need to be so formal, Mademoiselle.”She stood from her chair, and he did the same. “Well, if I am

to call you Jean, then I really must insist that you show the same informality.”

“It would be my pleasure, Alice. I hope you don’t find me too forward, but I was curious as to whether I could escort you to lunch again on, perhaps, Thursday?”

Alice dropped any pretense of coyness and smiled brightly. “That sounds lovely.”

In wasn’t until later that evening that it dawned upon her that their encounter had not been as perfect as it had once seemed. There were five women that lingered in her memory—five society women dressed in lace and pastel satin. Five women who had, throughout the entire luncheon, carefully eyed Jean and Alice’s every move—she knew this to be the truth because she caught them doing the same during their next visit to the café and the one following that. She never remembered their faces clearly, just a pale nose that turned up slightly at the tip or a shadowed green eye. They were all so very lovely, but, somehow, in that beauty resided inherent cruelty.

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It seemed that women were quite aware of Jean, but that didn’t prove to trouble her much. Jean was a handsome man; it was to be expected that he would amass a certain number of onlookers. What did bother her, however, was how they seemed to stalk him like lions, refusing to back away until they received absolute affirmation that a fortunate lioness had managed to permanently latch her claws into his pale back—in short, a certificate of marriage.

Three months after Alice and Jean had met, their somewhat regular afternoon outings abruptly stopped. She was dressed in her best gown, pale blue with a beautiful piece of lace draped over the skirt, waiting for Jean to appear at the door of her small apartment near the Seine. Her recently manicured nails tapped on the polished glass table near the door, lightly scratching her maid’s hard work. She stood there, a foot away from the door, for nearly an hour, ignoring the ache in her feet and the itch on the side of her mouth—what would Jean say if he saw her without shoes or with smudged lip stain? But, eventually, she realized he wasn’t coming. It was well past déjeuner, and couples were already returning home. She took off her heels near the door, set her delicate straw hat on the glass table, careful not to wrinkle the lace ribbon tied around it, and pulled the pins from her hair, one by one, dropping them with a light ping on the glass. Then she promptly went to her room and slept.

The next morning, Émilie, her maid, informed her that her dress was wrinkled beyond repair, and Jean was getting married.

Alice didn’t leave her bed for three days; she refused visitors, only allowed meals to enter her room, and spent hours tearing up anything that even slightly reminded her of Jean—any sheet music she owned by Debussy was left in an especially irreparable state. However, once three days had passed and she was done with her rage and her sadness, she moved on. Or, rather, she had prepared herself to move on, but, when Jean sent a letter a month later asking her to meet him the following afternoon at the Jardin du Luxembourg, she had accepted without the least thought.

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The following day, as they drifted past the fontaine Médicis, Jean explained in his own unique, rather embellished, but careful way that Claudette, his new wife, was a childhood friend. They’d married because Claudette was twenty-eight (five years older than Jean), and her parents had both recently died of consumption. The pretty redhead had nowhere to go, and Jean had done what he thought was expected. However, the two shared no romantic attachment.

Alice was forlorn, but she pasted a smile on her colored lips all the same.

“I’m terribly sorry to ask this of you, Alice. I wouldn’t if I could avoid it, but you see I’ve tried very hard, and I really must see you. It’s not quite proper, I know.” He reached forward to cradle the gloved hand nearest to him.

The soft tone of his voice gave away what he was asking, and she pulled away, turning towards the fountain, not caring that the front of her gown was growing damp.

“Not quite proper? Not quite moral seems like a far more suitable description. You’re asking that I give up my reputation. Call me old fashioned, if you will, but I still believe in stability and commitment.” With fumbling fingers she pulled on the gauze ribbon that encircled her hat. There was a breeze throughout the garden, and she felt flushed even though the old trees lining the stone path provided ample shade.

She cringed as she felt his hand on her shoulder. “I am terribly sorry, Alice. I understand. I shouldn’t have

asked. It’s not right of me—.”Jean continued on, but Alice was no longer listening. Her

gaze was fixed upon the sky above her. She hadn’t noticed before, but, that day, it was so cloudless and so blue. The topmost branches of the trees were so very tall, but even they couldn’t touch it. When she really examined those little twigs, they almost looked fingers, reaching up. . .

“All right.”“What, dear?” Jean’s hand disappeared from her shoulder,

and Alice turned away from the fountain.

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“I said all right. We’ll try, Jean.”He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and Alice took

another look at that sky. The sky that was perhaps not as perfect as she’d once thought, but certainly lovely and true.

Iona Wagner

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Gemma Baugh

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Mrs. Scott

Mrs. Scott’s white speckled brick house, with the roof that sloped from three points always gave me the feeling that her Snow White cabin was just the top floor of a greater, grander house below the bustle of Meridian. Every house on her street squatted in a similar style and peeked through the cover of the city’s last towering oaks. I would never have been able to anticipate when Aunt Lillian would turn onto her street if it weren’t for the house’s signature hunter green awnings, big canvas awnings with white trim, like the ones at the tennis club, where I begrudgingly wore my high white socks and my clean, white, bulky sneakers to stand and shuffle (huffing and puffing all the way) across the court with girls who sported multiple headbands and strappy spandex tank tops. I dreaded all of the shuffling, and the symbol of those green awnings always incited an irrational gulp of apprehension before walking through Mrs. Scott’s door.

Mrs. Scott’s lips were red, thick, powerful, Chanel-fire-engine red. The first time I met her, I just stared in awe at her face, unlike the subdued and creamy pink complexion of Aunt Lillian. Her powder blue eye shadow soared above her eyelids and her hair was quaffed in two lavender-grey waves that crested around her gold rope earrings that dangled above her shoulders. She was a petite creature, in her seventies, and was more of a force of nature than a woman, something between a Madame Butterfly and a strict grandmother. She stood in her purple jacket with gold buttons, her purple skirt with heals to match, and stared at you with a glint in her eye and those red lips pursed, and you were scared.

Aunt Lillian had to work on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school, so those were the days that I stayed with Mrs. Scott. The deal was that if I could help her with some jobs around the house, she would teach me things.

“What things?” I asked. Between schoolwork and shuffling, I felt that I had reached a ten-year-old’s capacity for hobbies.

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“Mrs. Scott is the kind of woman who knows how to live. Any woman who can raise four children and wear those outfits to boot knows something about being a lady.”

If she was going to make me wear dresses, or train me to balance books on my head, I would rather take more tennis lessons, I thought.

Mrs. Scott wasn’t prim and proper like I thought she would be. Her bark was as sharp as her glare, both of which could cross rooms or pews and catch the target of choice. I spent most of my afternoons carrying boxes from one room to another while she lectured and gossiped on anything from politics and family to church bell choirs. She called me Jennifer, not Jenny, which would have annoyed me, but she said everything with so much authority that, of course, I had always been Jennifer.

Often I was rearranging the porcelain angels that crowded the mantle, the living room’s own personal heavenly host. When I moved the wrong one to the left or right, out came a snappy, “Don’t be dense, the one with the blue wings. Now, I said blue. Blue, dear. It’s that simple, just listen to directions” from behind me. I turned to see her tiny frame balancing on the striped ottoman, arms crossed and face determined.

Most days she wanted me to practice a new skill. During November we knitted, in December we decorated for her annual Christmas party, and in January we played card games, which Mrs. Scott said was the only other lifetime entertainment besides reading, or tennis, which she would not let me complain about. I played the piano every time I came over. Her entire dining room, which was a large part of the house, was taken up by two massive grand pianos. The benches were pushed up against the wall to make room for a harp and an organ; there was barely enough room to fit the lamps that lined the row of instruments. I would sit on the piano bench and play scales, while Mrs. Scott ruffled through magazines in the sitting room, shouting at me when I made mistakes and sporadically gasping at something interesting in the newspaper.

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Mrs. Scott was not afraid to talk about money. It was very pressing on her mind, and I learned all about loans and mortgages and how you should never trust a bank and never trust a bookkeeper, or her college roommate Mae Louise who was a brown-noser who got into all sorts of wild mysticism after she got a divorce…Most of Mrs. Scott’s money lectures turned back into stories about people. We sat side by side on the piano bench together, playing my scales, eating lemon tarts, and talking numbers. I sat and munched on my tarts, nodding and agreeing, slightly embarrassed that she was so forward about everything.

Mrs. Scott was born in Indianapolis and I’m not sure that she ever left. There were portraits of her daughters everywhere, huge watercolors of the girls smiling in puffy, white dresses and equally puffy hair, but I never saw any family photo, or heard mention of a Mr. Scott. I liked to imagine her as the widow of a great opera singer or an ambassador’s wife who traded secrets for lemon tarts. In my head, she had always been someone who lived a daring and extravagant life in a world of culture and knowledge, and after that life, she had chosen to grace Indianapolis with her royal retirement as a favor to the uneducated laymen. Specifically, this uneducated layman, who now knew how to properly care for a garden, play the piano, and dust absolutely every corner of a house.

Mrs. Scott held some sort of secret that the rest of us kept looking for, an unwavering sense of self and a mystery that made her irresistible. She was the queen of Meridian Street, immovable from her throne until the day she suddenly became very human. I guess that all of Mrs. Scott’s words couldn’t make the money problems go away. I received a letter from her on a Monday, wax sealed and on blue stationary, with cursive so beautiful that Aunt Lillian had to read it aloud to me. Mrs. Scott was moving away, to live with her younger brother in Massachusetts. She was sorry that the Easter brunch would be cancelled, but she enjoyed keeping in touch with her students and friends and if I would enjoy it I could write to her at her new address.

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When I drove by the house with the green awnings the next week, it looked smaller, and I didn’t feel that there was a mansion underneath anymore. I guess I hadn’t noticed that the yard wasn’t very nice, or that the brick sort of sagged in places, or that the awning was torn. The grandness was gone. Aunt Lillian said that nothing was different about it, and wasn’t it a shame that such a wonderful woman was forced to leave her home. To me it didn’t feel like I had lost a friend or a grandmother, or even a neighbor. It just felt like the street wasn’t the same, like Mrs. Scott had packed up and taken the history and the music of the city with her.

Passing the house made me feel guilty after that. I never wrote to her, mostly because she still scared me. I remember the fear and the awe more than anything else. But I remember the best part too. When I had completed a song to her satisfaction, she would stand back and clasp her hands together, and those red lips would spring into a brilliant smile. “Beautiful, Jennifer! Lovely, lovely, lovely!” And it almost made me glad that she had yelled at me because I had earned it.

Margaret Clark

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DaisiesInspired by Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night

Marcel walked across the square in the gusty afternoon; spring had finally arrived to Arles, France. He grinned as he saw the first buds of the flowers in the window sills of the shops lining the Plaza. Seeing a daisy, he plucked it and hurried toward the small café across the square where he could almost hear Pauline’s laughter.

* * *

Marcel Reyer was one of the few people to really know Pauline. The others knew only four things about Pauline Abel. First, she was a waitress at the café in the Plaza du Forum; second, she was a quiet, handsome woman of twenty five with dirty blond hair; third, she lived alone, and fourth, she always wore a daisy in her hair. The rest was a mystery; she had simply come to town one day on a train from Paris and decided to stay. Rumors flew around that she was pregnant with a well-known politician’s child or that she was a foreign spy. But Pauline had stayed for almost a year without any signs of a child or a secret identity.

Marcel was only fifteen, a cheerful, dark haired young man, who had a charming manner about him that brought even the most reclusive people out of their shells, including Pauline. Every day after school, he would stop at the café, buy a cup of tea, and chat with Pauline. His friends would ask him why he did this, and he would always reply: “She’s just lonely, that’s all.”

He could not say that he was enamored with Pauline. He wasn’t head over heels in love per say; he was too young for her, but he felt as if he had found an old friend or a long lost sister that he had been searching for without knowing it.

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Marcel learned that Pauline was a horrible singer but an accomplished dancer, that she liked rainy days just as much as sunny ones, and she grew flowers in every space available in her cramped flat. She was excellent debater and was always talking about the latest political issues from Paris. They discussed anything and everything from the new bread at the bakery down the street to the economy of Spain.

* * *

“Why do you wear a daisy in your hair?” Marcel asked suddenly.

He and Pauline had just been chatting about the new artist who had taken up residence in Arles, a rather eccentric man really. This question surprised her and a small frown crept onto her face for a moment, but she composed herself and continued bustling around the small tables sitting on the patio, collecting saucers and cups while thinking of an answer.

“Oh, I just like the flower. It reminds me of my childhood home; there were daisies everywhere.”

Marcel didn’t push the subject. He knew he had upset her a bit, so he dropped it. Suddenly a tall, dark-haired man walked into the bar area of the café, not too far from the small table at which Marcel was sitting.

“Excuse me, I was wondering if you know a woman by the name Pauline?” he asked the waitress behind the counter. Pauline, startled by this man’s sudden appearance, hurried into the backroom without him noticing.

“Yes, she works here. I’m sure I just saw her minute ago. If you wouldn’t mind staying here, I’ll try finding her,” the waitress replied.

As she scurried off to find Pauline, the tall man helped himself to a drink, casting his face, full-front, towards Marcel, to reveal a bushy moustache and a scar stretching across his cheek.

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“What are you looking at boy?!” Marcel, who didn’t realize he had been staring, jumped and

looked at his watch. He really should’ve gone home, but he wanted to make sure Pauline was alright. He stayed for another fifteen minutes. Both his and the man’s patience were wavering. Fifteen more minutes passed. The man helped himself to a few more drinks and made his way to the tables inside the café near the back room. It was getting dark. Marcel picked up his jacket and books and left. Surely Pauline would be fine; he would check tomorrow.

The next day, he left his house as early as he could, running to make it to the café before school started. He was out of breath when he reached it and asked for Pauline. She came out of the restaurant bearing a large bruise across her cheek, hauntingly near where the scar had been on the tall man’s face. She was not dressed for work but, rather, for travel with a case by her side.

“Where are you going?” Marcel panted, still trying to catch his breath.

“Away from here. As much as I want to stay, I can’t. He can’t find out where I’ve gone again.” She almost smiled at the last thought. Pauline fished for something in her pocket and handed him a letter. “Here, open this after I’m long gone. Good-bye Marcel….” She faltered at the last words and hugged him.

“Good-bye Pauline Abel. May we meet again.”She smiled, took her case in hand and walked down the

street. Marcel wanted to run after her, shout in protest, anything to keep her there, but he knew that she needed to go.Later that day, out of habit, he went to the café with the daisy in his hand, almost forgetting Pauline wasn’t there anymore. The tall man was there, demanding to see her, ignoring the waitress’ protests that she was not there. Marcel waited for the man to leave, a good twenty minutes later, and opened Pauline’s letter. It contained only a picture with a date and place written on the back in elegant script.

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The picture was of a smiling girl with white flowers scattered in her hair like miniature suns. Beside her, a young, tall man with a gruff face and bushy moustache stood as if posing for a wedding ceremony.

* * *

Seated at what had been their table, Marcel studied the worn photo for several minutes trying to remember every detail of the smiling girl’s face. He ordered his usual cup of tea but it cooled with the lack of warm conversation they had once shared. Marcel soon got up, paid for his drink, and left, leaving that daisy, new from the first day of spring, in a vase already full of roses so that part of Pauline could linger there a little longer.

Krista Grendze

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PolishedWhen Verona Clark was four-years-old, a stinging sensation

ascended her nostrils as she skimmed the array of colors on a wooden shelf. After contemplation characteristic of a four-year-old, she decided on grey.

Her dimples revealed themselves as she reached for the nail polish, but they returned to hibernation when Taylor, Verona’s sister and elder by two years, glowered at her selection. Verona’s hand froze, hovering inches from her color of choice.

“Really?” Taylor asked, her voice drenched in disapproval. “What?”“It’s so...blah.” The younger grabbed the glass container anyway. “I think

it’s pretty.” Verona didn’t need to tilt her neck up to see her sister roll

her eyes; she could follow the familiar trail of her sister’s pupils behind the comfort of her own eyelids.

* * *

When Verona Clark was twelve-years-old, a stinging sensation ascended her nostrils as she squinted at an old Glamour. The magazine lay on the glass table that Verona convinced herself was a footrest in its past life. She was waiting on a worn, beige leather sofa with the grey polish sitting atop her thighs. A bold, block-lettered title dominated Glamour’s cover: “20 CELEBRITY BODIES EXPOSED.”

“Disgusting,” Verona muttered loud enough for her sister to hear.

Taylor removed the three colors she had been wavering between from the shelf and strutted to the sofa. Nodding toward Verona’s usual selection, she asked, “Why do you want grey again?”

“I don’t know….” She did know. She bit her bottom lip, mentally cursing herself for pretending not to know. “It’s neither white nor black.”

“Huh.”

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Verona studied this grey for the first time. When the girls’ mother dropped them off at Madame Royale Nails - which Verona would call 皇家夫人 if she wasn’t sure she’d butcher the pronunciation - Verona removed a grey without noticing the tint, picked up the most recent edition of Time, and plopped herself onto the sofa. This grey had a sticker on its cap that read, “Furious Cloud.” Furious Cloud was darker than last month’s Infant Elephant, but it still existed in that continuum between right and wrong, between purity and vice, between obedience and indulgence. To Verona, grey was the truth, albeit truth perpetually on the fringe of falseness. The truth deserved more than an apathetic “huh.”

“Ew. That is disgusting.” Verona glanced at her sister, who was engrossed in the

pictures beneath the magazine’s conspicuous title. “Right?”“How can someone let their body get that way?”Verona’s forehead strained. Strained like grey. “How can

someone read that?”A high-pitched chime declared their mother’s entrance.

Taylor sprang from the sofa, shouting, “Hey, Mom, what do you think of this red?”

* * *

When Verona Clark was sixteen-years-old, a stinging sensation ascended her nostrils as she perused the ingredients on a Sprite label. She was lying on her queen bed, watching an old episode of 30 Rock. Verona’s mom marched into her room.

“Why does your face look like that?”A Tina Fey fanatic, Verona squirmed for the remote, pushing

pause before meeting her mom’s eyes. “Sorry, what?”Mrs. Clark sighed acceptingly. “I asked why your face looked

like that.”Verona reached for the soda can. Was Sprite considered

soda even though it didn’t contain caffeine? Once the half-full Sprite was in her grasp, she held it up high, waving it in princessesque fashion. “Carbonic acid.”

“Ahh. Taylor and I are going to Madame Royale. I was wondering if you’d leave the cave and join us?”

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Verona sighed, not acceptingly. “Mom, do you know what nail polish is?”

“Attractive?”Verona shook her head. “Nitrocellulose, resins, plasticizers,

and yeah, some coloring agents.”“Okay...”“So you want me to pay ten dollars for someone else to

brush nitrocellulose, resins...pla, pluh...and coloring onto my nails? Because my own hands seem capable to me.”

“Since when are you so interested in chemistry?”Verona shrugged, wondering why her interest in science was

such a crime. It was her affinity for learning that made waking up exciting.

“It’s not even your money. I would pay, obviously.” With evident dimples, Verona said, “Then you should thank

me. I’m saving you money.” Her mom’s shoulders succumbed to gravity. “I just want to

spend time with you.” The left side of her mouth twitched. “Plus, the forearm massage feels nice.”

“It feels like a waste of ten bucks.” “Oh, Verona.” Her mom had mastered that unsurprised yet

slightly disappointed tone.“MOM! YOU SAID TWO MINUTES,” Taylor yelled from

downstairs. Mrs. Clark yelled back over her shoulder, “COMING.” Her

head returned to spinal alignment. “You sure you don’t want to come?”

Verona nodded with a faint, forced smile. Mrs. Clark took a few backward steps, her face mirroring her daughter’s. As soon as her mom’s feet pivoted, Verona added, “But, hey, will you bring home some grey?”

“No need. The grey’s already home when you’re here.”“Ha.” She started for the stairs. “Yes, I’ll buy some grey.”“Thanks, Mom. Enjoy wasting your money!” shouted Verona

just before she pressed play.

* * *

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When Verona Clark was twenty-one-years-old, a stinging sensation ascended her nostrils as she watched the bubbles convulse in the first sample of champagne. The sisters decided - or, rather, one suggested and the other opted not to argue - to pick up the samples and test them in their own kitchen. Fewer sales spiels, more opportunity to waste their consciousness: the decision epitomized senioritorial compromise.

The two sat across from each other, their bottoms trying to rest on the metallic chairs their mom must have bought solely for aesthetic purposes, their elbows supported by the granite table they had abused for years.

“What do you think?” Taylor’s excitement radiated off of her, just not far enough to infect her sister.

Verona thought that Taylor was making a mistake, that marrying someone she met a year ago was like buying a hardcover book after reading the flaps but not bothering to skim the first page. The plot may please her at Barnes & Noble, but the tone will end up all wrong. She’ll regret her purchase before she finishes the first chapter. Then, in fear of gossip, she’ll refuse to call it quits and find herself stuck, staring at that overpriced book for the rest of her slowly passing life.

“I like the bubbles.” Taylor chuckled as she rose from that iron bulge of a chair.

“More bubbles on the way, you Maid of Honor, you!”Verona resented that title. Immediately after her mom

mentioned her sister was planning to ask, Verona refused.(Verona: “How about I stand next to her when she signs the

petition for divorce?” Mrs. Clark: “You know that won’t happen.”Verona: “You know it should.”Mrs. Clark: “Verona, you’re doing this.”Verona: “Mom, I don’t care if other people think I’m a brat

for saying no.”Mrs. Clark: “I know you don’t. But I care if other people think

I raised you to be a brat.”)Oblivious to her sister’s grimace, Taylor set two unused Dixie

cups and another bottle on the table. “Do you think Madame Royale would give us a discount? I was thinking we could all get

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French manicures with my initials on our thumbs, like, instead of one of those floral designs.”

“French manicures,” Verona inquired without inquiring. Taylor poured, not conservatively, into both cups. “Yes.

Normal, white French manicures.”Verona’s head was shaking before her sister finished. “Verona! This is my day.” “What about Bulgarian manicures?” joked Verona.“Verona!”“Taylor, this is May 26th, months before your day. A couple

days before your day, I will go to Madame Royale with you.” Why hadn’t she studied Mandarin in college? “And I will let Mom finance my French manicure, but my tips will be grey.”

Taylor dramatically jutted her chin toward the ceiling. “Must you always be a contrarian?”

“I’m not a contrarian.” “It’s not like I’m asking you to have pink nails.”“White isn’t far from pink. You’re still buying into the

feminine stereotype.”“How?”“Thou female folk shall be pure.”Taylor’s eyes dropped from the ceiling so they could manage

a complete roll. “What would you do if I made you get your nails painted pink?”

Unrealistic hypothetical situation, Verona thought. You would stick to white like everyone else.

“Say it was to fundraise for breast cancer.” Verona made herself take a sip of the second sample,

wishing Taylor were willing to serve non-alcoholic drinks at the wedding and record the names of whomever acted drunk. Not to publish, just to laugh at later, when the chapters of Taylor’s marriage seemed burdensomely long. “God, what foundation?”

Verona could tell the fiancé was struggling to think of one. “Oh! Susan G. Komen.”

“I don’t support Susan G. Komen.”“You don’t support researching for the cure of breast

cancer...”“No, I support researching for the cure of breast cancer to

such an extent that I despise the Susan G. Komen Foundation.”

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Taylor gaped at her sister.“Less than twenty-one percent of Susan G. Komen’s assets

actually go toward research,” Verona recited from a documentary she watched between the sixth and seventh seasons of 30 Rock.

“What? What are they doing with their money?”“Marketing, of course,” Verona sneered.“For what then?”“Breast cancer. And higher salaries. The CEO racks in more

than $600,000.”The sunlines in Taylor’s forehead proliferated rapidly. “I

thought Susan G. Komen was a non-profit?”Verona lifted her index and middle fingers, signing air

quotes. Taylor pushed against the table, giving herself enough space to vacate her chair frontally, and headed for the next champagne bottle. Verona grabbed her hand. “Taylor?”

“Yeah?” “I’m not a contrarian.” The sunlines reappeared. “All right...”“And my tips will be grey.”

Sierra Witham

65

Megan Howell

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A Friday NightInspired by Edward Hopper’s Summer Evening

My house was a small, white ranch plopped on an empty lot with yellow grass overtaking the yard. Pieces of siding chipped away, slowly shedding into the wild bushes planted to cover the mess. The house looked vacant on the outside and felt so on the inside. As I slid through the back door coming home from school, I could hear my mother’s flirtatious cackling in the kitchen.

“ Oh my gosh, Brad, you are just a riot!” squealed my mother, with her blood red wine sloshing back and forth in her glass as she swayed in laughter. She caught a glance of me and said, “Oh hey sugar! Come on inside and introduce yourself. Don’t be rude.”

The man jumped down from sitting on the kitchen counter to shake my hand. His handshake was firm and intimidating, the kind of handshake you would give to someone you wanted to warn. Brad was tall with a sharp jaw line and a mop full of mouse brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed for a day or two. He wore a tattered, white T- shirt and worn out jeans; he seemed similar to all of the other men mother dated: young, tough, and rugged.

I slid out of the kitchen and made my way upstairs, eventually escaping the noise of my mother’s cackling. As I reached my room, my mood suddenly lifted. I remembered that I had a date that night. Almost every weekend some contender was willing to take me out. It was like clockwork. My mother and I rarely spoke to each other Friday nights because she would go out on her dates and usually not return until noon the next morning.

Friday nights were the best nights of the week. Unlike the week –nights, where I would come home to a drunken mother passed out on her bed with an infomercial playing in the background, I had plans. While none of my dates took me

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anywhere fancy, they took me out of this hell -hole for hours at a time. If they wanted, and most of them did, we wouldn’t even have to return to my house that night.

I quickly slipped on my high-waisted, pink, pleated, mini skirt, a matching bandeau, and a jean jacket. I let my curly blonde hair down and gave it volume with some teasing and hairspray. My look was finally finished with bright, pink lipstick and white platform sandals. With a few spritzes of perfume, I was ready for the night.

Once I heard the doorbell, I grabbed the purse from my night- stand, stuffed in the essentials, and rushed to the front door to let him in.

“Hey, you ready to head out?” “Yeah, I just need a minute to lock up the house.” “Isn’t your mom home? Can’t she do it herself?” “She left a while ago.” He scowled, as if he had already been irritated by something

I said. I assumed his impatience would wear off as the night went on. He hopped over to the driver’s seat of his black mustang; it must have been old from the rust covering the edges of the door. He wasn’t saying anything, so I felt the need to start a conversation and ask him what he wanted to do that night. He said he knew this quiet and relaxing place near a lake. This idea was different from other dates I had been on but not surprising.

The air was hot and humid, and I could feel my skin stick to the leather on the seat. The windows were a little foggy and the sun started to set. We sat in awkward silence, as he drove down the vacant, narrow street. I wanted to glance over to see if he had any expression of annoyance on his face, but from what I saw out of the corner of my eye, he appeared nervous and stiff. This kid was different from the others I had gone out with. He was unbelievably quiet and didn’t even pretend that he had an interest in getting to know me. His name was Chris Brinkley, and he was a senior. I had never really known Chris that well. We had

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mutual friend groups and said hello to each other in the hallways but never really held a conversation. I could tell that if I didn’t take the lead in conversation, no one would.

“ Don’t you just love driving out on the open road?” “ Yeah. It’s pretty liberating.” “ So where are we going again?” “Actually, we’re here.” He parked in the grass of what looked like a small lake in the

countryside. “So this is it. My favorite spot.”“It’s so peaceful, do you come here a lot?” “Not as often as I’d like, but it’s a great place to go if you

just want quiet and privacy.”“Yeah, that totally makes sense.” It did make sense. It made sense as to why he rushed me

out the door when he arrived at my house. It made sense that he wanted someplace “quiet” to go with me. I knew exactly what he had planned for the night, but, for some reason, I felt myself wanting to play along with his plan. Tiptoeing the line of danger and harmless flirting was an adrenaline rush. We promptly exited the car and sat down by the lake. The grass was mushy and wet from light rain in the afternoon. The cicadas started up and filled the silent gaps between conversations.

“Wanna go for a quick swim?” The minute he asked this, a minivan slowly crept up onto the

grass with its headlights flashing in our eyes. An older woman sprang out of the car and opened the side doors, letting out a boy about four years old and a girl about twelve. The man followed suit and unstrapped the luggage. They must have planned on camping out here for the rest of the weekend as a family trip. I found myself gawking at the family.

Chris looked irritated and bit his lower lip. He got up and whispered,

“We should probably go.”

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We hopped back in the car, and I prepared myself for another quiet car ride back.

In an anxious and frustrated voice, he asked, “How about we go back to your place? Your mom isn’t home, right?”

“Yeah, she won’t be home for a while.”When boys usually ask this, I give them the excuse that she

will be working late or is out on a business trip. This time, I didn’t feel as if the explanation was necessary. I knew that he could care less about my mother’s whereabouts, as long as she was out of sight. “Okay, perfect.”

He turned on the radio to fill the silence. J Cole’s “Power Trip” was blaring from the speakers. His shy demeanor suddenly changed with the music. The smirk reappeared on his face, and he started bobbing his head forward and back, leaning back in the driver’s seat. I forced myself to look out of the window in order to restrain myself from bursting into laughter. While he was in his world of rap music, I could not help but think about the family camping at the lake. I remembered their faces and the way they all looked, as if they were genuinely excited to be spending time with each other. On their Friday night, they were with family, having a good time, while I was out with this random boy and my mother was with a strange man.

It dawned upon me that I couldn’t remember the last time I had spent a night with my family. Before my father left, when I was about ten, we all used to sit in the living room, chowing down on pizza while watching a movie from Blockbuster. This was typical on Friday nights back then. I used to think it was lame, but now I would give anything to go back in time and relish the laughter and comfort of those evenings. Even though my family wasn’t together anymore, I still had my mom when she was sober. For the first time, I had this urge to just talk to her. I yearned for us to become as close as we were when we snuggled up on the couch watching Rush Hour II. I wanted to tell her that I

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was there for her and that we should think about becoming closer. We were all each other had, and we barely spoke. I suddenly craved a relationship with someone who wanted nothing from me in return.

“Alright, I guess we’re here.” He pulled up to the curb and we stepped out of the car and walked to the front porch. No one was home as I had predicted. We stood under the light of the front porch and he waited for me to open the front door. I stood back and leaned against a side of the house. I couldn’t convince myself to go inside. I knew what was going to happen once I stepped into that house. I felt as if I owed myself more than a relationship built on teenage hormones.

Once he noticed I had drifted back, he sat down next to me and eagerly asked, “Don’t you wanna go inside?”

I tilted my head to the side and said, “I’m just too tired.”

Abby Rangaswami

71

The Lot

She liked the sound of the thing: zip, clack, zip, a fraction of the sound her dirty white tennis shoes made with each step in the rock and gravel-covered lot.

Whenever Winnie found a rock, she would drop it in the small zippered side-pocket of her army-green cargo shorts. She would place them one by one into rows according to size on the big, rusty, cellar door embedded in the ground, face to the sky, in the very center of the mostly empty lot.

Winnie crouched down to examine her latest cluster of rocks, moving carefully through each item on her checklist; any stone must possess each trait to even be considered for the honor of a flight across the stagnant surface of her backyard pond. Since her father had taught her the skill, skipping stones had been the perfect end-of-the-day ritual for an eleven-year-old girl with no brothers or sisters in a part of town that afforded few opportunities for play. When her father was alive, Winnie’s family had lived in a small one-story house at the edge of a poor neighborhood with the sole defining quality of weeds, dead and alive, at all corners and cracks of the pavement and no trees, except for the small stand beginning in Winnie’s backyard and ending next to the highway. Since his death, the house had become a rundown eyesore, though now it fit in more with the rest of the neighborhood.

Despite the harsh scenery, Winnie’s childhood had been a rich one, full of games with mom and dad and make-believe when, more often than not, they weren’t around. A full-time job for the both of them still left the family in sufficient economic shape, but when Winnie’s father died, the money became scarce and so was her mother’s time for her. A regular evening for the two of them was now Winnie coming home from her daily excursions in time to send her mother off again for the night shift, not long after she had returned from her first job. Winnie knew

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her mother still loved her; after all, the money always had a way of finding its way back to her chipped piggy bank a few days after vanishing.

These days Winnie had her rocks, and she had her never ending quest for the perfect skipping stone. Presently, Winnie had just finished her final evaluation of her choice stones. Each test would affect the number of skips she could achieve, so this judgment was crucial. Her highest score was five, but that was surely luck, as it had been accomplished with an ordinary stone, one that had gone through her rigorous checklist, of course, but it hadn’t had any sort of special feel about it.

Today, she had been studying one stone in particular, off-white and speckled, like a sparrow egg; something about it gave her pause. She knew she couldn’t just throw it away and continue on her journey. Now and then, she would find herself caressing the special stone, and it soon became an object of great comfort to her.

At the center of the town, dead to the world but alive and eerie to her, the lot had always made Winnie uneasy; a common hangout for the town druggies, its daytime emptiness wasn’t lonely, but domineering and foreboding. It was, however, the best place for finding stones. Her quest had led her back and forth across this desert of gravel and abnormally large stones from a former construction site, though the company in charge of the project hadn’t shown much interest from the start. When it left town, so did the jobs, most families, and any hope of an upward climb for the town as a whole.

The heat of the stones might have burned inexperienced hands, but Winnie had built up hard calluses from burns and explorations of the rough-barked tress in the backyard. Afternoons were, after all, the safest time for Winnie’s quest; broken economies mean broken streets, and, because of Arizona’s afternoon heat, danger only emerged at night.

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Looking up at the sky, Winnie knew from the place of the sun that she ought to head back home so she could catch a visit with her mother before she headed off to her second job. She turned from her piles of unsorted stones and neat rows of sorted ones and made her calm but urgent way home; there was no way she’d be caught this far into the center of town when it was late, not after every warning her mother had given her about bad men who were worse than the coyotes she heard baying at the moon for rain every night.

She arrived home after eight or so minutes of a quickened pace, with the screen door banging shut behind her, and very carefully set the egg-stone down on the battered garage sale end table by the door. This was her special place for any sort of bauble she found that required further examination in the light of her bedroom lamp after her mother left. She kicked off her shoes and ran to the kitchen where her mother had that night’s take-out set on the kitchen table with one leg supported by an old dictionary and joined her for the latest regaling of the various lizards and bugs Winnie had seen skitter across her precious stones.

“Alright, babydoll, time to go,” said Winnie’s mom after twenty minutes of detailed critter descriptions. “Remember to–”

“–Keep the door locked, don’t go outside, fill the humidifiers, and lights out before 10, I know!” declared Winnie.

“Yes, well, tonight our rules are extra important. I don’t want you sneaking outside, not to the street, the lot, anywhere. Okay?”

“Okay.”“I’ll try and be home in the morning this time,” she said,

nervously tugging at her sleeves and then shifting in her seat to stare out the window behind her, one hand still fixed on her flannel shirt. Winnie hated when her mom did this because she couldn’t read the look on her face.

Winnie’s mother left soon after, giving her a kiss on the forehead and a preoccupied glance around the den before letting

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the screen door smack against the doorframe after her.Winnie was worried. With all of these anxious glances and

faraway looks her mother had given in their short time together, there must be something going on, she concluded. This happened every so often, and her mother always came home in the middle of the afternoon the next day, when Winnie remembered to stay home and watch out for her mother’s reappearance. She would come inside and pass out on the couch. Each time her mom stayed away longer and slept even more, to the point where Winnie practiced making herself dinner with the meager supplies in the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets.

Winnie ran to her room shortly after her mother left. She knew one place she could look for evidence of her mother’s whereabouts tonight. She didn’t do this every night, only on the ones that felt… uncertain. She knew that the money in her piggy bank could tell her if her mother would be okay; if her mom needed help, the money would surely save her. This time, however, something thumped onto the wood floor. Turning on her bedside table’s small, buzzing lamp, she bent and snatched up the folded wad of bills. A torn note attached to the rubber band securing the wad read: I love you, babydoll.

Winnie no longer had the reassurance of the vanished money, and, for the first time, Winnie was truly afraid.

She grabbed a flashlight and a jacket, slipped her speckled stone and the wad of cash into her pocket and ran out the door. She could feel that this was important, so she jogged all the way down to the entrance of her neighborhood. Luckily, there was no one around, but the sun had almost set; she had to hurry. She decided to head into the small center of town where her mother’s second job was supposed to be.

Winnie searched for hours on end and came up short of leads as to her mother’s whereabouts, all the while rubbing her thumb raw along the stone’s edge and feeling the weight of the money knocking against her leg. She felt she was running out of

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time with every street corner she turned, and, suddenly, she remembered her mom offhandedly mentioning the lot. It was the last place to look; she had already visited the 24-hour dry cleaner’s her mother had told her about, but the bored-looking woman at the assistance desk told her that her mother had only worked there for a couple of months, taking as many hours as she could, and then suddenly leaving her notice a couple of weeks prior. All Winnie knew was that she had to find her mom, though she didn’t want to face her fears of what finding her mother in the lot would mean.

There was one streetlight on the whole block and it stood, flickering silently at the far corner of the lot. Slumped against it was Winnie’s mother. She sprinted over to her, tripping once but resuming her urgent pace.

She knew her mother was gone before she reached her, but she still shook her body, begging for her to wake up and trying to ignore the patchwork of track marks that marred her mother’s pale skin, barely visible against the rolled up sleeves of a red flannel shirt. She cried until she had to run to the side of the road and retch, collapsing to her knees in anguish. Winnie looked up at the brightening horizon, and back towards her mother’s body, towards her neighborhood, her house, the trees and pond in her backyard. Then, she stood and stared back at the horizon.

Lizzy Bauserman

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Kurt Barbara

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2014