Climax

“It just looks so … sexual,” Allison said from behind the camera monitor. She looked to her director of photography, who nodded in agreement with one eye shut as he peered through the lens. “It’s supposed to be a horror flick, Brad,” she hollered to her actor in the bathroom. “So could you like … pretend to be scared?”

“How?”

“Well for starters, don’t slowly run your hand down the shower curtain.”

”I’m standing naked in a shower, Alli. I don’t know how else to be.”

“You don’t know how not to be sexy in a shower? Am I hearing you right?”

“Uh…yeah, okay,” Brad replied.

They had only been working together for a week, and Allison was running out of time to complete her senior project for her film studies class. She could kick herself for casting her roommate’s boyfriend in the lead role, but he swore he had film experience. Now she wondered what kind of film experience. She shook her head, cursing herself for not recruiting from the drama program first.

“Keep it rolling this time,” she said to her DP. He nodded. Silent and efficient, he was her ideal crew member. “Whenever you’re ready, Brad.”

Brad began whistling from the shower. It sounded oddly like “Rubber Ducky” from Sesame Street.

“What are you doing?” she yelled, standing from her makeshift director’s chair, which was nothing more than a rickety wooden barstool with the word “Director” painted down one leg-- a present from her overly optimistic parents.

“Trying to be casual. Not sexy, remember?”

She pressed her fingertips into her eyes, trying not to take her anger out on him. It wasn’t Brad’s fault she’d waited until the last minute to start shooting.

“Hey, the library needs this equipment back by eight,” her assistant director whispered.

“I know,” Allison huffed. “Let’s just give this one more go.”

Brad’s voice sounded from the overly acoustic bathroom. “So uh, what’s my motivation in this scene exactly?”

“Oh my god,” she grumbled. “Scared. You’re scared. Just take it from the top, everyone.”

The crew reset and Brad’s silhouetted form looked deep in thought.

“Quiet on set.” A hush fell over the apartment. “And go.”

The camera panned in from the left and began the slow zoom in, focusing on Brad’s silhouette. In Allison’s mind, the eerie background score was reaching its climax, building to the pinnacle moment of her short film when--

Arf! Arf arf arf!

“Margie, cut it out,” Allison growled, trying to get her yapping terrier to pipe down. The cast and crew held their positions, hoping Margie’s interjection didn’t mean starting over. “Keep rolling. We’ll fix it in post.”

The dark, imaginary orchestra resumed its playing in Allison’s head. The view from the monitor looked great. Never had her pieces looked this high quality before, and the building crescendo in her head made her stomach clench with anticipation. She held her breath, waiting for Brad’s pivotal line in the scene.

His shadowy figure froze. “Shit, what’s the line again?”

A disfigured clown stepped around the corner behind the assistant director. “Come on, man, you’ve had the script for a month now. Get it together.”

“Thank you, Tom, but I can handle it,” Allison said, scrounging up the last of her patience. “Okay, let’s keep going, people. Take it from Brad’s line, ‘Who’s there?’ Do you have it?” She asked him.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Okay, whenever you’re ready.”

The figure repositioned, and Brad’s voice rang out like a bad Keanu Reeves impersonation.

“Who’s there?” His shadow shook its head. “Probably just my imagination.”

Even Allison jumped when the dark form of Tom passed in front of the camera. It was all coming together.

“Wait, what the hell is that?” the DP whispered.

“What’s what?”

He pointed to a black blob descending from the bathroom ceiling. She heaved a sigh, rolling her eyes. “Take it back to Tom’s entrance, everyone. We’ve got a boom in the shot.”

“No way,” the sound tech called from the bathroom. Allison had nearly forgotten Jerry was there. “I’ve had this thing at the same level the whole time,” he said, as the boom mic trembled with rage.

“Just keep it out of frame, okay?”

“I’m standing on the back of a freaking toilet. How much more out of frame can I be?”

“Dammit, Jerry. Make it work!”

She did feel a little sorry for the guy. Jerry was indeed standing on top of the water tank of a toilet in her tiny apartment bathroom holding a boom pole overhead. Maybe his arms weren’t shaking with frustration, but fatigue.

“Alright everyone, let’s take a breath and go back to the evil clown’s entrance.”

Whether or not it was what she envisioned, this was it. The crew was tired, people were starting to get sloppy, and the film would either be her best work, or it wouldn’t. There was nothing more she could do to stop the deadline’s determination to crush her.

“This is going to be the last run of the night,” she said, feeling somehow she was admitting defeat. The entire set sighed with relief as the cast and crew reset. “Whenever you’re ready, Brad.”

“Who’s there?” he said, the line sounding oddly better than before. “Probably just my imagination.”

The cloaked form of the evil clown darted in and out of frame. Everyone was on mark. Allison held her breath, the demonic orchestra rising in her head again.

“Cue, clown.”

Tom followed his mark perfectly and lunged in front of camera one, running down the visual corridor the DP had just created, straight for Brad. He wrapped both arms around the hero, pulling the opaque shower curtain down around him.

The camera zoomed, quick and precise as the DP stepped into the tiny bathroom. The two actors wrestled and writhed just as scripted, as Brad delivered his best blood-curdling screams. Allison watched the monitor with excitement and anticipation, waiting for something to go horribly wrong, but it didn’t. Brad’s screams died and the clown gave one last terrifying look to the camera above him, a maniacal laugh escaping his painted face. Even Allison shivered.

She had done it.

“And cut.”



Written by: HG Reed
Photo by: Erin Notarthomas

The Power of Water

Maddie crouched at the riverbank on a small overlook. Brown water hissed around the rocks in front of her, foaming white, choking the edges of the river heavy with recent rains. She was never leaving. She would become a hermit, fish and hunt for game; the latter would provide food as well as warmth. Never mind that she had no taste for venison or bobcat or coyote. Loners – outcasts, weirdos – did what they must.

A balmy November wind blew at her back, rustling the weeds. Dead leaves curled around her toes. Maddie’s sneakers and socks lay behind her in the grass. She hadn’t meant to take them off. Somehow, though, she felt freer without them, unafraid, like her high school self, the barefooted camp counselor who’d taught the younger kids how to start a cook fire and purify water in this very park. Confident. Admired. Self-assured.

Nothing like the idiot who ran from Kevin earlier today.

Maddie loved Thursday evenings, the only nights that she and Mason both had free. After deciding to meet at five at a local restaurant, Maddie hung up and left the student center. She would shower, change, and finish some homework before leaving. She pushed the door open; cool air rushed around her jacket. In the entryway, a few feet from the door, stood Kevin.

They’d ignored each other since the spring. Maddie pretended he was a ghost, a figment of her imagination, the fading image of a nightmare, but today, she nodded to him.

Kevin slowed. “Oh, hey, Matt.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You’re all alone. Scared away your new boy toy already?” Kevin stopped. “Must’ve been the lesbo haircut.”

“Fuck off.”

“He’s probably undressing a real girl right now.”

Always, always, always it came back to gender with Kevin. Here at the park, Maddie could fire off a hundred replies: I am a real girl; Mason wouldn’t lower himself to your standards; even if he hurts me, you can’t have me back.

But at school, her words decayed like a dead fish washed up on shore; the noxious fume filled her mouth, her nostrils. Maddie fought a gag reflex.

Kevin laughed. Maddie didn’t stop. She passed the library and the dorms, feet pounding against the sidewalk in a steady run. What kind of god allowed Kevin to corner her like that, with no witnesses?

The same god that made her, obviously.

In the parking garage, Maddie didn’t wait for the elevator; she ran down the stairs. On one jump, she skipped two stairs. Her foot caught the edge and slipped. Her hand wrenched from the railing, and Maddie stared into the abyss -- at the eight remaining steps and the concrete landing below.

If she let herself fall, would she melt into the concrete and disappear like water through a crack?

Maybe it was good balance, from the broken, dead trees over which she crossed rivers, or maybe it was luck, but Maddie stumbled down two more stairs, banging her hip into the metal railing. Breathing hard, she paused for only a moment before hobbling to her car and driving forty minutes to her woods, her river… Home.

Clouds hung in the sky, darkening the river as it lashed against the rocks. It was a battle, the water fighting for more space while the rocks, unmoved, stood in defiance.

Gender was supposed to be easy. But Maddie had always felt more comfortable outside – hiking, swimming, mountain biking, or mowing the lawn. She couldn’t do high heels or make-up. Not a girl, not a boy, Maddie was in between, fluid.

And Kevin hated that. Especially when she’d wanted to shave half her head and trim the other to a bob. “You can’t,” he’d said from the comfort of his dorm bed, leaning against the wall, his legs crossed. “I already feel like I’m dating a lesbian.”

Maddie rocked herself side to side in his wheelie chair. “What are you talking about?”

“You used to wear all those pink, lacy shirts for me. Why did you stop? Don’t I try for you? Don’t I dress up and bring you flowers?”

“You’re not dating my clothes.”

“All of a sudden, you dress like a man, and now you want to cut your hair. It’s like you want to be a guy. I date girls, Maddie.”

“You’re supposed to love me no matter what.”

“Don’t my needs matter to you?” Kevin asked.

They did. He wouldn’t be happy with her, so Maddie broke up with him. In his taunts afterward, Kevin made sure she knew about the “real girl” he cheated with.

The current attacked the boulder before her, bearing a stick; wayward water splashed onto the bank, dribbling across the dry dirt before seeping back into the river.

Maddie’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She’d blocked Kevin months ago, right? He couldn’t harass her, not here, not when there was nothing to stop her from staring into the abyss. The river water churned below her.

It was Mason. Where are you? his text read. Call me. It was five thirty, half an hour past their date.

Ahead was a bend in the river. The water beat against the rocks, brown frothing white before mixing back into the unrecognizable bulk of the river. Maddie stood. Her hip ached, and despite the balmy weather, her bare toes had numbed. On her phone, she typed, I’m sorry. It’s a long story.

But it didn’t matter. In the battle between the water and the rocks, the water – in its everlasting crusade for space, its attacks gentle or crushing depending on the current – won in the end.



Written by: Natalie Schriefer
Photo by: Kayla King

The Misfit Pioneers

Ming hauled the door open, her lips pressed together against the chill. Rubbing her hands, she dusted the white flakes off her coat and hurried inside.

She rarely came to this side of campus. Though it was a small university, the engineering students kept to their quarters and the art students to theirs. A quiet thrill shot through her at this minor act of defiance.

The art studio exhibited a curious architecture. Filmy drapes hung on black bars, almost like shower curtains. Bulging pipes peered from the ceiling. A string of lights crisscrossed overhead with no real symmetry. Concrete walls splattered with ash and paint. At least the low-rise tables and chairs appeared orderly and clean, gathered in blocks across the tiled, gray hardwood.

It was a very American studio, at least in Ming’s mind. Back home they would not tolerate such a design, even for a creative workshop. Ventilation pipes belonged behind walls and makeshift lights would be tossed in favor of unobtrusive ceiling fixtures.

Naked. That is how she would describe the room.

“Escaping the cold?”

She jumped at the voice. Turning, she found a lanky, raven-haired boy watching her with an amused expression. His hands were dark with charcoal dust.

“I wanted to wait for the snow to stop. I parked in the main lot.”

“You’ll be waiting awhile, then.”

Ming shrugged. She did not want to dwell on what prevented her from going home earlier, much less explain it to a stranger.

“Are you a student?” she asked instead.

He nodded. “Just transferred from art history to art. Drop a word from my major’s name and gain another year’s worth of work.” He grinned. “I’m Jonah.”

“I’m Ming, electrical engineering,” she said, knowing that was sufficient explanation for why they were not acquainted.

“Ming,” he repeated. “Cool name.” Jonah glanced at the dirty window, the edges frosted over with snow and ice. “It doesn’t look like the storm is letting up. I make a mean hot chocolate, if you want me to fix some up.”

She hesitated for a moment but agreed. The roads were dangerous, and the hot and humid weather of her hometown had not prepared her for the bitter winters here. Besides, Jesse would not call anymore and Ming did not want to be home alone with her thoughts.

Jonah had an easy, unaffected manner. He filled the silence with small talk about his life as he bustled around the kitchen area. Ming sat at a table nearby and listened. She learned that he switched majors late, so he spent frequent nights in the studio playing catch-up. Unlike most college students, he disliked coffee, but had an unhealthy addiction to hot chocolate.

“It’s my grandma’s recipe. No sugar,” he boasted, as he set two steaming mugs before her.

The warm, rich scent filled her nostrils. “Thank you,” she said.

He pulled out the chair opposite to her. “So, Ming. Does your name mean anything?”

“It’s the same word for ‘bright’ in Chinese. It’s quite common.” She paused. “What about Jonah?”

“The prophet, in the Bible.” He grinned at Ming’s blank look. “God sent him to preach to a wicked city, he disobeyed, and was swallowed by a fish for three days.”

She considered it for a moment. “It seems like bad luck,” she said finally.

Jonah laughed. “He made it out alive. It’s a great story, actually.”

Ming flushed and fell silent. Her family burned incense, prayed for health and prosperity, and tried to live good lives for karma’s sake. In her last two years in America, her circle of engineering friends rarely discussed religion, philosophy or literature. If Jesse worshiped anything, it was Bruce Willis movies, which he insisted were a sufficient lens into western culture and ideals.

“Do you plan to go back to China after school?”

“I wasn’t, but—” Ming stopped abruptly, a painful twinge in her chest. She met Jonah’s eyes, steady and kind. “My boyfriend is from here. He broke up with me today.” The words fell out in a rush.

Jonah’s eyes crinkled. “I’m sorry.” Then he added, “He’s a jerk.”

Surprised, Ming glanced at him. “You don’t know him.”

“Of course not. But he probably is.” He held up a hand to stop her interruption. “Here’s a rule for breakups. Get rid of that urge to defend him.” A crooked smile slid up his face. “I don’t know him. I know you. I’m on your side, alright?”

Ming suppressed the urge to tell him that his logic was convoluted and nonsensical. She had to admit it felt good to have someone on her side.

She and Jesse shared the same circle of friends. Or, more accurately, Jesse formed their circle of friends and drew her in when they began dating. Ming knew this was nonsensical too, that the loss of one relationship could make her feel so unanchored and lonely on a campus teeming with students.

“Thanks,” she said. “My friends were all Jesse’s friends, so…” she trailed off.

Jonah nodded in understanding. “Jesse is from the Bible too. Father of a king,” he murmured. “I’m guessing your ex isn’t that great.”

Ming couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think so. And how are you living up to your name?”

“I’m all for seeing the inside of a fish.” Jonah grinned. “I like a good adventure. I’m forming a campus club for explorers, actually. The Misfit Pioneers. Have you heard the rumors about this place?”

She had. The administration tried to check wild gossip, but students still whispered about secret passageways and treasure troves buried beneath the grounds. Ming could never decide if it was the typical American obsession with conspiracy, or if there was some truth wrapped in the stories.

Jonah was on the ground, wrestling with something in the tiles. “This is what happens when you spend too much time here,” he called up to her. She heard a crack and an entire tile came loose. A plume of dust rose as he heaved it aside.

Ming yelped and joined him, peering into the darkness.

“What’s—in there?” she asked.

“Not sure. I was going to check it out sometime, hopefully with a buddy.” He met her gaze. “So, interested in joining my club?”

“How many people are in it?” she asked, still distracted by the gaping hole in the floor.

“Well, now there are two of us.”

Written by: Dana Li
Photograph by: Anthony Delanoix

Blue Hearts

I wouldn’t ask her to name one after me, even though it was all I wanted. One of two things I wanted, and the second was her lips – anywhere on my skin.

Kisses heal the hurt; isn’t that what they taught us?

“These are my favorites,” Amber said, but she didn’t have to say it. They were the only rocks swaddled in wrapping paper, and she held one out to me, the sparkling flat of it resting in the careful platform of her two palms.

Geodes, not rocks. They were geodes. The difference, Amber claimed, was the crystals crackling from the hollows of volcanic stone. They were the product of fire and water. Warring elements, she said, while I sat against the side of her dorm room bed, the wood of one leg smooth against each pebble of my spine.

Water impregnated with chemicals, rich in minerals, she continued, and I wondered why she was talking about water, but mostly I wondered if she knew I had known her name since elementary school, watched her since middle school, and to find her in college felt more miraculous that any crystal formation.

I had started taking my miracles small, scrounging for them, an addict eager for the pop of his next pill.

“You can hold it.” The rock – geode – was offered to me, but I did not want to take it. She held the flat slice of chemical blue crystal more carefully than I had ever held anything.

Watching her hold out these rocks to me, I wished that I had talked to Amber before. Before today. Before the summer. Before the speeding car and my little sister, running. I wished I had talked to Amber the first time I noticed her, back in third grade show-and-tell when she’d smiled wide at the bright crystals in her hands even though some of the kids laughed at her for collecting rocks. I wished I could have asked her how to hold something so gently, so that I’d have known how to reach out, so that I’d have known how to take my sister’s hand when I had the chance.

But I didn’t talk to Amber before today, so I didn’t know, last summer, how to take my sister’s hand. Her IV had protruded like the brightest star – Sirius, wasn’t it? – in a midnight black sky, and to touch it meant to acknowledge the solidity of the hospital room posed around us. My hands under my thighs meant I could be dreaming, a blink and the pale pink walls would crumble like ash to reveal our front yard, where my sister ran, ran, ran.

She had always liked to run. “What are you running from?” I’d asked her, that day last summer, while I’d stretched my legs across the weeds that I was meant to be pulling.

My sister had giggled like she knew I was asking the wrong question. Where are you running to? I should have asked, and then I could have run after her, faster than that speeding car.

“Does it have a name?” I asked Amber. The other rocks did. The less special ones. Clunky, misshapen lumps that only revealed the side worth anything if turned over. Not the rock in Amber’s palm, nor the three left on the wrapping paper. It was Christmas wrapping paper. Red with pearl snowflakes, even though it was the thick of August. I could feel the crisp shadow of expiring sun on my outstretched legs until a peal of laughter from outside the room reminded me that I was sitting against the dorm room bed of the girl I’d always wished would notice me, back when I could spare my wishes on such simple things.

“No, I haven’t named it yet,” Amber said. The hair she had been tucking behind her ears – black and inky like the deepest parts of the sea – fell over her face again. She could not move it, as both hands still held the unnamed rock.

I searched in Amber’s eyes for the sympathy I’d collected from everyone back home, but instead I saw only wonder at this rock she held, like it was something precious, something alive, something to be kept safe in the flimsy swaddle of Christmas wrapping paper.

Her eyes were brown. Like dirt, the kind that packed together into sedimentary rocks, which sometimes hoarded air bubbles in the empty spaces of their chests so that something beautiful could grow.

If I asked her to name this rock after me, she would. She had texted me to come over, after all, and from what I knew, we weren’t friends. To me, she was just the girl who smiled at rocks, who left me wondering how it would feel, to be smiled at like that. And to her, I was just the boy from grade school who happened to go to the same college.

I was more than that now. No longer “the boy who,” but “the boy with.” My sister defined me, and I didn’t fight. Let her take the place in my chest where only air was whirring, the hollow I ached to fill.

“Go on,” Amber said, hands moving an inch towards me. “It will help.”

Help what? It was a goddamn rock. I lifted my palms to match hers, lifelines-up like we were showing off how much time we had. The rock slipped against the sweat of my skin.

It was smooth, warm from her heat, a kiss falling along the creases of my palms.

“I know they’re just rocks,” she said, but at first I thought I had said it.

My fingers flinched, and the rock trembled against my fingerprints.

“But pretending they’re something more helps.”

Helps what, I thought again. I wanted to say it, but my voice had lost itself in the gaping expanse of my chest, and I looked away from her dirt brown eyes to this rock in my hands.

I pretended it was a heart. Small, warmth cooling, turning blue from lack of oxygen. Did hearts do that? I didn’t know. In my head, it didn’t matter. I watched the heart harden, so tiny it could fit into a rabbit’s chest, like the ones that ran, quick, quick, across our front lawn, sometimes darting into the road without warning, without any time to stop them.

“Will,” Amber said suddenly – sudden as the flash of metal on sun-kissed skin, but not nearly as loud – and I didn’t know if she was finally naming the rock I held, or just saying my name to fill the hollow of our silence.



Written by: Danielle Dyal
Photograph by: Sophie Stuart

The Front Door

I was always surprised by the long drop to the ground from that window, no matter how many times I did it. I would lie with my stomach on the window, my legs stretching down as far they could before I would let myself drop to the grass. I hit the bushes most of the time, and almost always lost my shoes, but every now and then I would just miss and land with shoes intact. On those nights it seemed luck was with me. Strange, but when I left the house by the window, life's forbidden possibilities seemed so close at hand. Grandpa must have known I escaped. I think he planted that bush there to make it harder for me, but he never said a word. Doug was always there, waiting in the dark with a tender kiss.

That night we were headed to a party at Roger's house, a ten minute walk. Roger’s parents lived in the center of my little town -- alcoholics who always seemed rumpled and sad. They encouraged Roger's friends to hang out there by ignoring all company. The house was dingy, but you could tell it used to be nice -- a white wood-frame 50's style home with oversized rooms and lots of character. The back part of the house was added on later with narrow halls and lower ceilings. It felt like a cave, the perfect hangout for us.

That night the blender was making margaritas in the kitchen; Mrs. was doing the honors. It was rare to see her out of her bedroom as she was quiet -- not shy, just closed off. Her presence that night was explained by the fact that some relatives of Roger's were coming over and she wanted to see them. They were attending A&M, which made them celebrities. I had a secret dream of going off to college. I never mentioned this to any of my friends. I didn't think they would understand the urge to leave this town.

Doug got me a special margarita with sugar on the rim. He took care of me that way. It was a nice touch, but it made it messy to drink. We were asked to sit around the living room with the parents. Seemed to be the price of the special drinks that night as Mr. and Mrs. had never said a word to us before. We usually just went to the back of the house with the TV on mute and the hard-rock music on so loud we felt it, or we sat around on lawn chairs in the garage where an old ping-pong table sat untouched. I never even saw a paddle. Roger would have the music blaring from his crudely made plywood speaker cabinets housed in trunk of his car. The treble speakers were under the dashboard inside. It was a serious system, if unattractive. With all this heavy metal, not much talking went on. But this evening we were sitting around the living room and it was very uncomfortable, like being in a police lineup. I kept getting sticky sugar fingers, which I tried to wipe off on the sofa when no one was looking.

Mr. and Mrs. were asking what each of us planned for the future. Doug was planning on becoming a welder since he heard it paid real well. Jeff was thinking along the same lines, but he one-upped Doug saying he wanted to do the underwater kind. Roger did not know and said so with annoyance. Just as the question was about to get to me, the phone rang. I was relieved and disappointed in the same instant.

With the distraction of the phone, Roger dragged us to the garage avoiding the margaritas so his parents wouldn’t trap us again. He had beers in the ice box outside. Tonight Roger decided the stereo system had to come out of the car so we could hear it properly. This took an incredible amount of effort--things were cut and reassembled. Roger was proud of that system. After he got it out and working again, requiring some electrical tape and wire stripping, Ozzy Osbourne started playing. We’d seen him live two weeks before after camping out for tickets overnight. We were still all about the bat eater.

By the time we were all getting lazy and stoned, a small, nondescript sedan pulled up. Out stepped a young couple about twenty years old. They seemed deliberate in their movements, or maybe I was just in slow motion. They said they didn't have much time. They just wanted to stop to say hello. They seemed so goal-oriented in that one statement. The tension in the garage went way up and the music went down. Everyone wanted to impress them. Sentences were complete, voices were loud enough to be heard. But mostly, we all wanted to hear what their life was like. They had one more year to go til graduation, and they were already getting offers from Amoco and Conoco, not as welders but engineers. They didn't stay long -- half an hour at most, and Mrs. never made an appearance, but they made an impression on me.

We all were a little depressed when they left. The party kind of fizzled. We felt empty, without purpose. What were we working towards? It was a long, silent walk back to my window. I was bad company and I don’t know why I tried to hide it. Getting back in was always harder, but we had it down. Doug would lock his fingers together and I would step into his hands as he flung me up. Tonight I said, "I got it, you can go". I don't know if he understood, but he nodded as he turned to leave. I waited a bit, and then decided to just go in through the front door.

Written by: Deborah Dwight Brown

Photograph by: Daniel Vidal

Freshmen

We recap the year with pitchers of overpriced margaritas at Chili's, procured less by our fake IDs and more by fortuitous seating in a section manned by a frazzled waitress. Her name tag reads Jessica, but we all swore she said her name was Beth. Either way, she's tilting at windmills trying to get a good tip from that six-top of frat boys.

It's the three of us: Naomi, queen of problem sets and keg stands; Yara, wannabe director, actual drug dealer; and me, future M.D. unless the system breaks me. A third of our freshman class entered in some kind of pre-med track; after four days a week with 7 AM chem or bio from the dullest profs the college could hire, survival of the fittest has whittled it to a fifth of our class.

I'm still hanging in there, but Yara sometimes mentions adding two more to our crew to keep the pre-med proportions right and when she does, there's a good chance Naomi will say something about three-fifths and give me this look.

If we've been drinking it's hilarious like Chappelle's Show, but if we're not it's just sad and awkward, like explaining Key & Peele's magical negro sketch.

I'm about to lose faith in Jessabeth the waitress, but a timely refill of margaritas and bottomless chips and salsa keep her in Naomi's good graces, and Naomi's picking up the tab (with her mom's AmEx).

And oh God, when I think there can't be a more bittersweet moment, when we're laughing till we're crying and refusing to consider how this summer we'll be bound only by FaceTime and Instagram, Naomi slips and mentions Levi.

It's how I imagine a stained glass window would melt in an inferno: searing heat, crackling glass, the vibrant colors pooling together and hardening, a warped lump once beautiful.

Yara's face scrunches up. She's trying not to cry for real this time, and Naomi looks down and we're conspicuously quiet. Jessabeth checks in, but probably because her waitress senses are tingling and she's worried we realized we don't have enough cash to cover three rounds of margaritas and counting.

One of us should say something, break up the mood before we all descend into memories of the great night that turned into a bad morning.

I know I should say something, but I can't.

I remember sickly-sweet vodka, flavors manufactured to market to teen girls. Cake and cotton candy; didn’t even need a chaser.

Bailey was there and I tried to play it cool, tried to make my way over to him gradually. He was all suburban prep: J. Crew closet, lacrosse scholarship, poli sci and econ double major. Such a vanilla choice, but he captivated me with that orthodontia-perfect smile and New England charm.

He offered to make a s'mores shot in my mouth, and when we finally kissed the cigarette smoke on his lips made me taste campfires and cool nights.

We all left and stumbled through the freshman quad, everything in soft focus and blurred to perfection.

Yara and Levi slipped away. I watched them go, her hip pressing into his thigh and his arm around her shoulders, their silhouette illuminated.

Naomi and I made it to the frat house, the bass thumping, a beacon for the wasted. I don't remember much other than Bailey's hands against my hips, furtive kisses tasting less like smoke, more like sweat. I woke up in his bed the next morning, and we didn’t kiss or cuddle.

I don’t even remember my first time.

Maybe I should be more upset about what happened and why we haven't spoken since, but I don't want to think about it, and if you don't think about things they can't make you upset.

I went back to our room, walk of shame mercifully short. Yara was single and heartbroken. Naomi had spilled coffee all over my floor trying to juggle my hot pot and french press.

At least she wasn’t injured, she pointed out. At least I was here, the subtext. And the evidence: Yara’s blotchy cheeks streaked with tears. She shook with sobs and choked it out: how Levi’d confessed he loved her, but thought he was in love with a girl from her film class.

And I couldn’t say why or what happened, because what would I say? Why would I take the comfort Yara needed more than I did?

"I don't want to talk about him," Yara says, dragging a chip around the perimeter of the salsa bowl, and I know how she feels although I can't tell her why.

"I'm sorry,” Naomi replies. “Guys are assholes. Especially that one."

"Where are you working again this summer?" I turn to Yara. She's told me half a dozen times in the last week but her gray eyes light up, eager to think or talk about anything other than Levi, her first real boyfriend. Her first real ex.

"The community theater at my hometown. They're letting me do some of the programming for the youth performance camp," Yara sips on her margarita. "Oh, and my job from last year. It's so much easier to sell pills there, you have no idea."

                                                                                                   ***

A month into summer and the three of us have talked less than I thought we would. A text here or there, maybe a Snapchat. No phone calls, no FaceTime, no sound other than the static of friendships on hold. We communicate through pixels.

I try to convince myself that I don't feel abandoned, just neglected when Yara texts me from work. Golden arches leer at me in her photo.

Making bank. 1st brunch on me as thx. xoxoxo.

One day I'll tell her things I remember about that night. How I saw a couple wrapped up in each other, backlit by hazy possibility and walking into the future together. How I wanted that moment, to be so caught in it I didn’t know it was happening, dizzy in love and invincible in ignorance, unaware that anyone could hurt you.

Written by: Erin Justice

Photograph by: Matt Crump

I'm Positive

You deserve this.

After countless days and nights spent scouring every byte on your external hard drive for the most pixel-perfect representations of your photographic eye, you deserve this.

After staging sit-ins in all of your teachers’ offices until they agreed to write you a glowing letter of recommendation, you deserve this.

After considering your competition–Shelly, the Sepia Queen; Oscar, the Overexposer; Lauren, the Lighting Illiterate; all the other hacks who call themselves photographers just because they own a DSLR–you definitely deserve this.

Then you get it, the envelope you’ve been checking the mailbox for every day since your submission. It’s thinner than you expected, but hey, how many pieces of paper does it take to say YOU’RE ACCEPTED?

You can’t answer that. All you know is it takes one to say you’re rejected.

You’re speechless.

You check the envelope to make sure it doesn’t say Shelly or Oscar or Lauren. All you see is your name, a name you’ve never been that fond of, and in this moment you absolutely fucking hate it.

You hate your parents: for giving you that name, for not giving you a camera until your freshman year of high school, for getting divorced.

Whoa. You’re spiraling.

This isn’t about them. This is about you. You suck. You failed. You should kill yourself.

No, no. You shouldn’t kill yourself. You should go back inside, your neighbors are watching.

You need to turn over the letter. Maybe it says PSYCHE on the back, and you’re actually accepted–those kooky artists types. Nope.

You get a text. Did you see Shelly’s Instagram?

You didn’t, but you will now.

SHIT! Why’d you do that!? Couldn’t you tell by Sam’s syntax that you were walking into a trap?

Guess who’s going to be posting a ton of pictures from RISD? This girl!

No shit, Shelly. We could infer from your stupid, sepia-toned selfie and that giant Rhode Island School of Design envelope you’re holding in your non-dominant hand that you are This Girl! You WHORE! You should kill yourself.

Not YOU, you. Shelly you.

You should find a distraction. Video games? TV? Pornography?

No, no. You should lie down. You should stare at those fan blades until they suck up all your pain and chop it into teeny tiny little pieces. Never mind. It’s summer, which means they’re moving counter clockwise. Which means you should stare at them until they blow your sorrows out the back of your skull like Marvin’s brains in Pulp Fiction.

You hear that? It’s a car. Your mom’s car. You should hide.

No, no. You shouldn’t hide. You should just tell her. She’s going to find out sooner or later. She’s going to know something’s up when fall semester rolls around and you’re still lying on her couch, staring at fan blades.

“Any news?” she says, every syllable drenched in hope.

You should lie. Tell her no. Buy yourself a little time.

Too late. She knows. She knows if the answer were no, you would’ve said so by now. She knows if the answer were yes, you would be flipping your shit like when you were a onesie-wearing, teeth-missing little brat and she asked, “Did the Tooth Fairy pay you a visit?”

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart. Mommy’s here when you’re ready to talk.”

You wish you didn’t feel that tear hit your forehead when she leaned over to give you a kiss. You wish your pain was yours alone, and that it didn’t pile on to the heap of hurt she’s been carrying since her marriage toppled over like a crumbling wedding cake, but empathy is at the heart of every great parent.

You wait until she leaves the living room and grab her keys.

“I’m going for a drive,” you say.

“Whatever you need,” she answers from the kitchen.

You fire up the engine and promptly turn off the Sheryl Crow CD she’s had on heavy rotation since the day she and your dad finalized the divorce papers.

You pull out of the driveway with no destination in mind. You just know you have to steer clear of your favorite coffee shop. Beth is working, and she can’t find out what a shitty photographer you are. Not yet. Not until you’ve helped her put together her modeling portfolio.

Sam. You should try to find Sam so you two can talk shit about Shelly until you’ve convinced yourself that the only logical explanation for her acceptance is that she must’ve blown the Dean of Admissions.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Shelly has never been anything but nice to you. Shelly has never been anything but nice to anyone. Maybe that’s why she’s going to be a huge success, and you’re going to die a miserable piece of shit. You should try being nice for a change, starting with Shelly.

Shelly, what’s something nice you could do for Shelly? Oh! You could like her Instagram post!

You scroll to the photo and hover your finger over the empty heart while trying to drain the dangerous mix of envy and spite from the one in your chest. You go against your wicked nature and press the button. A giant heart eclipses her post and another photo pops up on her feed. It’s her camera lense, shattered across the pavement like your hopes and dreams.

This celebratory photo shoot is not off to a good start :(

You smile, but quickly wipe it off your face. You’re nice now, remember?

You text her.

Hey Shelly. Congrats on RISD! Bummer about your lens though. You can borrow my extra for the summer if you want?

Thanks Gareth! That would be amazing! Are you sure?

I’m Positive.

You’re my hero! I’ll be sure to drop it off at your dorm ;)

I’m afraid that’s not possible. I didn’t get in :(

WHAT!!!!!!!?????? But you’re like, the best photog in our entire class! Maybe even the entire WORLD!

Ha! Well, now I guess you are.

Ha! I guess so.

Fuck it. You still hate her.

Written by: Mark Killian

Photograph by: Josh McGonigle

Bring Your Swimsuit

Maggie wondered what it would be like to be a normal person—one whose mind didn’t whir like an out-of-date hard drive, spinning, unable to keep up with the new expectations of the world.

She stared at Audrey Atkins in her pink bikini, its strings hugging the taut, tan surfaces of her neck and hip bones, and figured Audrey’s mind was as blank and free as an empty beach. Audrey probably woke up this morning--hungover, but not feeling guilty about it--wriggled into that bikini, and set off for the pool party. Nothing more.

Maggie’s day started at four a.m., when she woke from a nightmare about the party. In the dream, she’d forgotten her bathing suit and was completely nude. Everyone was staring, and there wasn’t a towel in sight. When she tried to cover herself, her hands shrank and her body kept growing larger until she woke, gasping in her twin bed.

She didn’t want to go to this party, but she’d promised her aunt she would give college life a better try. The sorority thing was not going to happen, but the honors welcome party had seemed innocent enough. Then Dr. Burman--who was supposed to host a cookout in his backyard--had to cancel, and Dr. Morgenthal volunteered to host. “BRING YOUR SWIMSUIT!” the new Facebook message said.

If cellar door was the most beautiful phrase in the English language, Maggie thought BRING YOUR SWIMSUIT had to be the ugliest. She owned one swimsuit, which was more of a swim dress. It was black and ruched “in all the right places,” her aunt had declared as Maggie emerged from the Macy’s dressing room.

“I’m leaving the tags on,” Maggie said, tugging the lycra skirt so it covered her ass.

“You won’t. You’ll need this—didn’t you see that pool behind the boys’ dorms when we did the campus tour?”

Maggie had seen that pool, and she had to admit, if there was one perk of the honors welcome party, it was that Dr. Morgenthal’s pool was not visible from every window of the boys’ dorm--girls splayed out on the deck below like meat.

Audrey Atkins was playing chicken, wielding a foam noodle as a sword to thwack another classmate. Her legs clenched around the shoulders and neck of a guy Maggie recognized from Dr. Peterson’s Calculus class. Calculus guy looked perfectly comfortable being separated from Audrey Atkins’s crotch by only the smallest triangle of fabric.

Maggie turned away. “Chips?” Dr. Morgenthal offered. Maggie shook her head. “Let me at least take your bag.”

“It’s okay. I might—change in a minute.”

“Good! The water’s great,” Dr. Morgenthal said, “and it’s too hot for jeans today.” She eyed Maggie’s outfit—frayed blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a cardigan.

Maggie’s hard-drive brain whirred again, reciting all the rules she knew to be true:

When you are a girl who weighs 250 pounds, observe the following:
Do not eat in public, except for tiny bites when no one is looking.
No swimsuits, no shorts, no tank tops.
No dresses if you’re going to be walking, or your legs will chafe.
Extra deodorant.
You are invisible, yet people’s eyes are roaming your every roll and dimple.

Maggie planted herself in the shadiest deck chair by the food table. She watched a fly circle the ranch dip, then land in it. In the pool, the game of chicken had broken up in favor of a cannonball contest. Audrey Atkins bounced on the diving board, drew her knees under her chin, and hit the water with a pebble-sized splash.

“Boooo,” Calculus boy hollered when she surfaced. “I give it a four!”

“Hey!” she said, kicking a wave of water toward him. “Like you can do better!”

“Magnolia Clark!” a voice boomed. It was Dr. Peterson, her Calc professor.

“Maggie,” Maggie mumbled.

“So how’s freshman year treating you so far?”

Dr. Peterson was graying and wore crooked glasses. He also wore a Life is Good t-shirt and Hawaiian floral swim trunks.

“Fine,” Maggie cringed. “Are we still having a quiz on Monday?”

“Please, no school talk now! Did you bring your bathing suit?”

Jesus, will it ever let up?

“You know what?” she said, “I think I’ll go change now. Be right back.”

Dr. Morgenthal’s bathroom was pale yellow, and everything in it was plushy. The bath mat, in the shape of a rose, was softer than new carpet, and the toilet paper was the quilted kind Maggie’s aunt always said was a waste of money.

Maggie stripped off her clothes and stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror. Her mind whirred through all the usual insults—the names of animals she’d been called in the past, the clinical terms her doctor had used, concern knitting his brow. The words she knew weren’t healthy—words like disgusting and worthless. Constant, looping words. She shimmied into the bathing suit and snapped the straps over her arms. Ham arms, her mind spun.

Now comes the next phase—sitting ensconced in a towel, repeating “I’m letting my food settle,” through the next ten conversations to avoid unwrapping.

But before she could reach for her beach towel, the door to the bathroom swung open. A lithe body scurried inside, slammed the door, and locked it.

“Excuse me?” Maggie said.

“Thank God it’s you,” Audrey Atkins said.

“I’m in here?”

“Sorry. I had to—holy shit, I can’t even believe it. Maggie, he is such a pig!” Audrey’s face screwed up into a knot, her eyes swimming.

“You know my name?”

“Um, yeah? From orientation group? Everybody else was like, really lame? But shit, even the professors want to talk to you.”

“Oh.”

“He is such a pig,” Audrey repeated, sinking down onto the rose bath mat. “I never should have worn this.”

“Wow, no—I don’t know what happened, but if that guy did something to you, a swimsuit is not an excuse.”

“Do you know this is actually my first time ever wearing a bikini? God, I am such an idiot.”

Audrey stole Maggie’s towel from the floor and wound herself up in it like an exotic cocoon.

“The string,” she sniffed, “slipped when I dove off the board. And Nick—he said my boobs looked like—" she gulped.

“You don’t have to say it,” Maggie said.

“Will you—come sit with me outside? I can’t leave. My roommate gave me a ride, and she’s being a bitch right now. She actually laughed when my top slipped.”

“Some friend.”

“Hey, the tag’s still on your suit,” Audrey said, and before Maggie could stop her, she stood and snapped the plastic loop with her teeth. Maggie cringed, anticipating the judgment when Audrey saw the size. But Audrey just tossed it in the trashcan.

“Okay,” she said. “You look great, but are my eyes super puffy?”

As she looked at Audrey, her barely-red eyes, her wet hair piled on top of her head, the pink bikini string peeking from behind the bulk of the beach towel, Maggie let her mind stop whirring.

“You’re good,” Maggie said. She opened the door and followed Audrey back to the pool.

Written by: Dot Dannenberg
Photograph by: Matt Crump

Be Great

Taking the train home from the other side of town is like visiting a weird zoo—one where all the animals are different from you, and you shouldn’t look them in the eyes. There’s a tourist holding a pole and standing over me, looking like Willy Wonka wearing a Hawaiian print shirt. In the seat on my right, a man in a ratty coat reads Chapter 20: “Tentacles.” Sitting across the train car, two little girls in braids cut up, tickling one another. Then the older one leans over and licks the smaller one on the forehead. In front of me, there’s a woman carrying a purple orchid. A man reading a Spanish newspaper. A girl who interjects her rapid-fire Chinese with “I’m just sayin’.”

If I were in a praying mood, I’d pray we don’t get stuck in a tunnel.

When I switch trains at L’Enfant, I get back on my turf. Everything evens out, and it’s the strangers I always see. People I know, but don’t know. Tired people headed home from work. Sometimes a panhandler, but one who knows better than to ask here.

Walking back through the neighborhood, I find the boys playing ball.

“Z, come play!” Mike says.

“Nah, man, can’t.”

“Where’ve you been today?”

“School.”

“School?” Mike says, throwing the basketball at my chest. “The fuck?”

“I told you I was doing college,” I say.

“Z’s too good for us now,” Arthur laughs from over by the fence. “Come on, Mike. Leave him alone.”

I throw Arthur the ball. I expected this. I just hoped it wouldn’t happen on my first day. Up at the school, they said they could see I was different. How I pay attention to things. But I don’t need anybody telling me I’m special. My whole crew’s been getting that our whole lives, and look where it’s gotten most of us. Playing ball in the middle of a weekday. Doing nothing. Like they told us we were special just to keep us alive.

“I’ll be out later,” I say. “Got to check on my mom.”

I go in the house, making sure the door doesn’t slam behind me. She might be asleep.

“Baby, is that you?”

She’s awake. I can hear her oxygen tank making its puffing noise, like a big dog sniffing something every few seconds.

“It’s me.”

“How was school?” she calls from her bedroom.

“It was good, Mama. Everybody’s nice.”

“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

“I know. Did you eat yet?”

“I did. There’s some in the fridge for you.”

I heat up the leftovers, peas and rice, and turn the TV on. It’s the local news, and the ugly anchor with the shoulders like a linebacker is talking about the usual. Somebody’s missing. Somebody’s shot. Somebody’s crashed their car on the beltway, and there’s a massive pileup. I decide I’m not hungry and put my bowl back in the fridge.

I leave the news on and go back to Mama’s room. Her eyes are closed, but she opens them when I enter.

“You get enough to eat?”

“Yeah,” I lie.

“Tell me all about school, now. What classes did they give you?”

“English and computers. And introduction to criminal justice.”

“You’re going to be great, baby. You know that? You’re going to be great.”

“I’m going to try,” I say. “I’m going out. You good without me?”

“You go on. Tell Arthur I said he needs to go back to school, too.”

“I will.”

We play fast and hard. It’s August, still too hot to play with a shirt on, even at night. Mike tries to cheat every chance he gets, but I hurl myself around him, not meeting his eyes. My Jordans smack the cracked pavement. The game breaks down to nothing but sound—the huffs of our breath, the thunks of the ball on the backboard, the metallic rattle as it rolls through the hoop.

“Z thinks he’s a scholar, he doesn’t need ball,” Mike says.

“No team will take a dropout like you, Mike,” Arthur says. “You don’t need ball, either—you need the lotto.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mike says, but he’s not mad. Mike may be bitter, but he’s not unhappy. He runs shit around here, and that means something. And his girlfriend’s about to have a baby. Even though Mama wouldn’t agree, I know Mike’s going to be a good dad. He cares when it matters.

“What’s it like over there in white-ville?” Mike asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Nice,” I say. “Shiny-ass buildings. Nobody getting caught smoking a j on kiddie playgrounds. Nobody like that around.”

“That was one time!” Mike yells. “What, you think I could’ve gone home like that? My grandmother would kill me if she caught me high.”

Arthur laughs so hard he doubles over. “Well, when you get sick of all that law-abiding bullshit, you know where to find us,” he chokes.

“I’ll remember that,” I say.

Arthur and I hit the corner store for beer, and he follows me back to the house.

“So you really like it at college?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s not like what you think. Everybody’s just like us. It’s just regular people. And they say they can help you find jobs.”

“Jobs. They could get me something better than Checkers?”

“Maybe.” I push open the door to the house. The TV is still on. The linebacker news anchor is gone, replaced by the bald guy who does the weather. Tomorrow: hot. The next day: hotter. The day after that: more of the same.

Arthur takes the beer to the kitchen, and I go to Mama’s room. The oxygen machine’s still making its noise.

“Mama,” I whisper. “You need anything?”

She doesn’t answer. Must be sleeping. But she’s more still than usual. I watch her stomach to see if it’s going up and down. It’s not.

I go closer to the bed and touch her arm.

“Mama, you okay?”

Arthur sticks his head around the doorframe.

“She asleep?”

I shake my head.

“She’s gone.”

“Shit, man.”

I call my aunt and the hospice nurse. Arthur sits with me while we wait for them, and I heat up the peas and rice, the last meal my mother will ever cook for me. I sit at the table and eat, each bite feeling more like food of the dead. Arthur starts on the beer and flips through my new computer book.

“I’m sorry, Z,” he says. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

Outside, I hear the hospice nurse pull up. Somewhere, kids are laughing and running down the street. Off a ways, a car’s backfiring. The whole neighborhood’s still alive.

Written by: Dot Dannenberg
Photograph by: Daniel Vidal

The Guardian Angel

 

The scream comes from the cottage, and I knock over my lemonade. Thick shards of clear glass float in a sugary puddle. I'm torn by which mess I should clean up first - the lemonade or the source of the scream. When I hear the door slam, I know I won't need to choose. Shawn will be here soon, so I focus on the sticky, dangerous mess on the old hardwood floors. This won't help the resale value.

“She shouldn't be there!” Shawn begins. He has the cool, confident charm of all great pretenders: Jay Gatsby, Tom Ripley - hell, even Don Draper. “I'm trying to entertain a guest.”

Shawn's guest glides across my lawn: short shorts, barely-buttoned blouse, and unruly red hair. She's a knock-out, and possibly out of his league.

The source of the commotion follows her. My angel skips through the grass, her black hair spiked like an anime character. Her sundress has a rainbow of stains, and she has only been playing outside for five minutes. Her giggle cuts through the humid air, and I smile because she's my baby.

“Lauren,” Shawn continues, oblivious. “We've talked about this. Cici needs to stop snooping. It's creepy.”

Shawn was the only person who contacted me about renting the cottage. It was a long shot, being so far from campus; I thought maybe I could snag a grad student, solitary and focused. Listening to the blossoming undergrad track star describe how he would “just, you know, run to campus every day,” I had my doubts. There was something sad in his voice, and I pitied him for being the popular kid no one liked quite enough.

When he showed up on my doorstep, I knew it would be a problem. The full, pouty lips. The small bump in his nose. Eyelids so heavy I don't know how he kept them up. Smooth skin. The clumsy beauty of youth.

Like I said, I pitied him.

“You knew about my daughter when you agreed to rent the cottage. What do you want me to do about it?”

“Make her stop looking at me!” Shawn says.

“Well, that's never going to happen,” I reply without thinking. Shawn stares at me with a look of repulsion and confusion. I sigh. “House trip. Let's go.”

Normally, “house trips” involve the grocery store or the buy-in-bulk warehouse a town over. Normally, Shawn and I make awkward small talk over our lists, dividing up territories of mutual interest and annexing aisles. We bond over efficiency, and the fact that he doesn't mind shopping in the aisles I fear taking Cici: the ones with cookies, chips, and cleaning supplies.

This trip we are quiet, except for Cici's regular chatter from the backseat. My answers are short but soothing; Shawn's are terse and harsh.

“You're taking me to campus?” Shawn finally realizes we're driving his daily running route. The brick buildings loom ahead of us. “Lauren, I mean, we just need to figure this out – I don't have anywhere else to live – ”

“You think I would kick you out and keep all your stuff?” My laugh falls into the same rhythm as the turn signal. “You need to see something in the Sculpture Garden.”

“Oh,” Shawn visibly relaxes in the passenger seat. “There's an easier way, if you go by the English Department and – ”

“No, I like going this way.” It's the last thing I say to him until we arrive at the Sculpture Garden.

“Go play over there, Cici,” I point to a couple of polished metal pieces that I know she likes. With her distracted, I lead Shawn over to the sculpture. She’ll be here soon enough.

“I've never really looked at the stuff here,” Shawn says.

“I brought Cici to campus one day. It wasn't a good trip. She was so excited to meet him; I thought maybe he might change his mind. She’s not used to feeling unwanted,” I look away before Shawn can see me stiffen. The memory still leaves me angry and embarrassed.

I stop in front of a small stone sculpture.

“We were both upset. I brought her out here to cheer her up. She danced through the garden, laughing and twirling. She stopped at this one and started whispering, like she was telling it a secret.”

The full, pouty lips. The rough bump in the nose. Eyelids too heavy, even for stone.

“We come here on her birthday. We can't leave until she's seen this one.”

“It looks a lot like me,” Shawn says.

“Her guardian angel,” I say. “Stories you tell your kids...you never know how they'll play out later.”

“Does she think I'm her guardian angel?” Shawn asks.

“Yeah, I think she does. In her little world, that's how you fit.”

The trip back is silent. Exhausted, Cici naps in the backseat.

“Why wasn't it a good trip for her?” Shawn's question interrupts the still serenity of the ride, and it surprises me so much I almost drive the SUV into the guardrail.

“Wh-what?” I stammer.

“You said the first time you were at the Sculpture Garden, it wasn't a good trip for Cici. Why not? Does it have anything to do with not wanting to go near the English Department today?”

I do not answer. I don't want to. I don't know how.

“You don't have to say anything, Lauren, but people talk. I'm not interested in spreading gossip; who would I tell? But – well, I have Professor Lowell this semester and, uh, I'm going to give him really bad eval scores.”

I burst out laughing. Bad eval scores? Like that matters or makes a difference, or undoes any of what happened, any of the denials and fights and lonely, aching nights.

Who is this kid to think he can make a stand with a shitty survey?

Cici lets out a little whimper in her sleep, and her leg spasms. I smile, because she's my baby.

“Thanks,” I say to her guardian angel. “Say he didn't have that 'academic gravitas' you expected from a man with his pedigree. It'll drive him crazy.”

“Yeah?” Shawn says. His smile is so bright that for a second, I see what Cici does.

“Bonus points if you can work in 'esoteric.'”

Written by: Erin Justice

Photograph by: Chris Boyles

Finders

Norah fell asleep with the tip of her nose pressed against the nape of Stacey’s neck. They spooned beneath a thin beige sheet as Manhattan’s winter chill crept in and mingled with the dry heat of the radiator in their tiny apartment. When Norah woke up the next morning, she could smell the scent of Stacey’s shampoo on the pillow. They had been dating for six months when they decided to live together. Norah was a college dropout working at a coffee shop in the East Village and Stacey was a dental student at Columbia University. They seemed an unlikely pair on paper, but laughter and wine dotted their i’s as moonlight and introversion crossed their t’s.

Norah watched the steam rise as she showered, washing away the previous night’s lovemaking. Their relationship was racing forward like the A train on a good day. Stacey’s parents invited Norah over for Thanksgiving and marriage was already a topic up for discussion. A few of their friends thought they were moving just a little too fast and some thought the educational disparity guaranteed trouble, but they were a seamless fit, not easily torn by societal norms.

However, a thin strand of insecurity hung loose and vulnerable from Norah’s ego. She stood in the doorway of their bedroom, holding a mug of peppermint tea up to her lips while staring at the stack of letters on a shelf above Stacey’s desk. Norah always wondered who they were from and what they said. She never saw Stacey touch them, but they weren’t accumulating dust either.

For the first time since moving into Stacey’s apartment, Norah was alone. She grabbed the pile and sat on the bed, starting from the bottom and slowly working her way to the top. The letters professed love, missing you’s, and I hope I see you soon’s, each signed with “L. Hines.” Every note was a dot on the timeline of a two year long relationship, the last one postmarked only two months earlier. Norah’s tea was not hot enough to melt the lump forming in her throat.

She placed the stack back on the shelf with care and noticed a blue spiral bound journal. Anger and curiosity prompted her hands to pick it up, open it, and place it on the desk. She sat down and glared at the first and only entry recounting a trip Stacey had taken to Idaho with this other lover eight months ago. She described the quaint bed and breakfast where they stayed for a week and referred to her companion by initials rather than by name. The entry ended abruptly, sandwiched between two photographs of the landscape and their accommodations.

Norah leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, conflicted by both the urge to scream and cry. She knew she should give Stacey the benefit of the doubt, to wait until she got home so they could discuss the matter like a mature and loving couple. Jealousy overrode ethics and common sense as Norah grabbed her peacoat and one of the letters from the shelf. Racing downstairs to the lobby, she disregarded the security guard’s greeting and went outside to hail a taxi. She read the return address from the envelope to the driver and they headed south, past the university toward Morningside Heights.

When the taxi pulled up in front of the apartment building, Norah looked up at the many windows of its facade, wondering which one harbored this mystery woman. She paid her fare and got out with some reluctance, shutting the door only when the driver hollered. She made her way up the steps and scanned the tenants’ names posted by the call panel. Running her tongue over her teeth, she pressed the button next to “L. Hines” and waited.

“Yes? Stacey?”

The voice belonged to a man.

Six seconds of eternity floated by before Norah cleared her throat and called back, “Uh, no. This is Norah. Stacey’s girlfriend. Is L. Hines there?”

The nausea formed heavy pools of saliva in her mouth before the man said, “This is he. What do you mean her girlfriend?”

Norah shook her head, wrought with dizziness and disbelief as she backed away from the call panel and sat down on a cold concrete step. She slumped forward and put her head between her knees, feeling the urge to vomit before she heard an all too familiar voice.

“Babe,” Stacey said, walking up from the street, her voice dripping with guilt and shame.

Norah didn’t look up. She knew she sat between two lovers as she heard the door open behind her and the shuffling of feet. She could feel his glare burn through her back and straight into Stacey’s heart, the disgust in his mouth as palpable as the vomit threatening to fill hers.

“You’re gay? All this time I’m wondering if you’re sleeping around with some asshole on Bleecker Street, but it’s worse! You’re a lesbian!”

Stacey stomped up the steps, brushing Norah with her coat and retaliated, “What difference does it make if I’m with a man or a woman? I swear, Liam, you're so insecure!"

“Insecure? Gee, I wonder why!"

Norah took her time standing up, bracing herself with the railing as she descended to the sidewalk. She didn’t bother to look back as the volume of their voices escalated. Pulling up her scarf over her face and stuffing her fists in her pockets, she walked toward nowhere, remembering the relationship she ended after meeting Stacey. He was a nice man with hazel eyes and ginger hair, who always kissed her goodnight beneath her left earlobe, who always thought they would last forever. Norah didn’t tell him that her someone else was a woman. She just said thank you for the memories and that she’ll always love him. The sob erupted from her lips as she realized her experiment was not worth leaving him.

 

Written by: Natasha Akery
Photograph by: Emily Blincoe

Playlist

1. “Better Off Alone” by Alice Deejay

The first time Kat met Mason, she was walking out of the lunch line into the cafeteria with an orange tray of fried chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, and a carton of chocolate milk. The girls her age were all so skinny, wore shorts that made her panties seem like boxer briefs, and knew what it was like to make out. Kat spent most of her time cheek-deep in a fantasy novel and watching Sailor Moon. She was pretty convinced that no one would be interested in her for a long time, if ever.

Her best friend Sophia waved her over to a table by the vending machines, smiling with a mouthful of braces. Kat took a seat across from her and noticed the boy to her left wearing a black Linkin Park tee and leather wrist cuff. She noticed the moon-like craters in his blue eyes when he met her gaze as she managed a tight, closed-lip smile.

“Omigosh, Mason! This is Kat,” Sophia began. “She’s been my BFF for like ever! She plays guitar and knows the lyrics to every Spice Girls song!”

Slightly embarrassed by the introduction, Kat looked down at her mashed potatoes and wondered if she should stop getting lunch from the hot line.

“I’m not really into them as much anymore,” Kat said, pushing the green beans around with her fork. “I’ve been listening to a lot more techno lately.”

She noticed Mason perk up and lean forward with his forearms crossed on the tabletop. “Oh, cool! So, you’re into like BT and Alice Deejay?”

Kat’s eyes shot up and her back straightened with renewed confidence. Mason was smiling at her and she realized she would totally make out with him if he asked her.


2. “Meant to Live” by Switchfoot

Kat and Mason were sitting in his Pontiac Sunfire in the parking lot of their favorite coffee shop. Kat’s first gig was in an hour and her performance anxiety was not agreeing with her dinner of Japanese fast food. Mason knew better than to bother her with encouragement, so he turned up the volume on the radio and smiled as a familiar guitar riff opened up their favorite song of senior year.

“Fumbling his confidence and wondering why the world has passed him by...”

He held her hand resting on her thigh and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Kat was singing with the chorus quietly as she looked out the passenger side window at passing traffic, a setting sun, and cars pulling in. She took in a deep breath.

“Okay,” she sighed. “I’m ready.”

Mason cut off the ignition and leaned over to kiss her cheek.


3. “Fix You” by Coldplay

When Kat got off the phone, she curled up into a ball on her tiny bed in the dorm room she shared with a predominantly absent roommate. It was the week before final exams during Spring Semester of her freshman year at the College of Charleston. She held a pillow against her face and sobbed, a deep and guttural sound that made her body quake. There was no one to comfort her, no one around to explain why something so terrible could happen. Why did Sophia go to that party? Why did she have to drink so much? Why didn’t they go to the same school so Kat could have stopped her?

Her phone rang. She didn’t want someone else to say her best friend was dead, but she looked at the screen anyway and saw Mason’s name. He was at Savannah College of Art and Design, which meant he was over two hours away. Kat wiped her nose on the pillow, rolled over onto her back, and answered the call without saying anything.

“Hey, Kat.”

She didn’t respond.

“I know you’re really upset, but can you come downstairs? I’m here.”

Kat immediately started sobbing again as she got out of bed and mumbled through salty saliva and grief, “I love you so much. I love you so so much.”


4. “Politics of Resignation” by Motionless

They were on a bus headed from Madrid to Trujillo, Spain. Mason had his headphones on, listening to some obscure post-rock instrumental band as was the trend since they graduated in the Spring. It was their first time being in a foreign country together and a way to kick off the their professional futures. Teach for America assigned Kat to a team in Los Angeles and Mason took a job with a video game company in Santa Monica.

Mason placed a bud in Kat’s ear and said, “Listen to this one.”

Kat placed her book in the seat pocket in front of her and curled up in the crook of Mason’s arm as she closed her eyes. The electric guitars made her heart hurt and the drums pressed her into the future.


5. “The Only Moment We Were Alone” by Explosions in the Sky

The heat and humidity of the concert venue made Kat want to vomit. There were so many people with clammy skin brushing against her bare arms. The look of disgust was obvious enough to make Mason laugh and pull her close to him. He leaned against the wall and she against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. Kat was already feeling a little sick, wondering if she should take a pregnancy test when they got home. Mason was playing with the fingers of her left hand as the band plucked the first notes of their favorite song. They were silent in the car ride home, the music still resonating in their bones. Mason pulled into the driveway and got out first. When the light turned on in the car, Kat suddenly noticed a thin gold band holding a small emerald on her left ring finger. Mason opened the passenger side door and leaned in, smiling. Kat looked into his face and nodded, leaping from her seat and into his arms.

Photograph By: Emily Blincoe
Written By: Natasha Akery