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YoungArts

Anthology + Catalogue

Select works by the 2026 Winners with Distinction in Design, Film, Photography, Visual Arts & Writing

YoungArts

Anthology + Catalogue

Select works by the 2026 Winners with Distinction in Design, Film, Photography, Visual Arts & Writing

2026 National YoungArts Week T-Shirt Designed by Denzel Boyd (2014 YoungArts Winner in Visual Arts)

Acknowledgments We are thrilled to welcome you to this Anthology + Catalogue, comprising works by the 2026 YoungArts award winners with distinction in Design, Film, Photography, Visual Arts and Writing. An affirmation of the caliber of their expressions, these editions are often the first opportunity for young artists to see their work published and represent a bold step toward a professional future in the arts. Our work is a continuous process that depends upon the knowledge and commitment of a vast network of guest artists, teachers and educators. We are grateful for the many partnerships and artists who have helped inspire this next generation of artists. We extend our gratitude to Anthology Editor, Tere Negrete and Exhibition Guest Curator, Dejha Carrington. This volume and National YoungArts Week programming are made possible with generous support from Anthropologie; Aon; Cornelia T. Bailey Foundation; Batchelor Foundation; The Kirk Foundation; The Koffler Foundation and Lisa-Heiden Koffler; City of Miami Beach, Cultural Affairs Program, Cultural Arts Council; Miami City Ballet; the Miami-Dade County Tourist Development Council, Miami-Dade County Department of Cultural Affairs and the Cultural Affairs Council, the Miami-Dade County Mayor and Board of County Commissioners; Miami Downtown Development Authority; New World Symphony; Northern Trust; Stern Family Foundation; Sandra and Tony Tamer; and Lynn and Louis Wolfson II Family Foundation.

Please visit youngarts.org/donor-recognition for a complete list of donors. Above all, we extend our sincerest gratitude to the artists featured. We dedicate this publication to you, your families, teachers and mentors.

Table of Contents Select Works Isa Bella Althea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 Jasmin Arreola . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Kaitlyn Bai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Nate Barcot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Christopher Barker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Eze Baum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Isabel Bhatia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Syanne Blades . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Niamh Carmichael . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Zack Cheuk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Violet Chin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Isabella Cho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Kayleen Cho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Minjun Sean Choi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Nathan Chong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Ryan Chou . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Edeline Chung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Sachiko Clay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Avi Coe-Sullivan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Alejandro Cohen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Kiyomi DallasKidd . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Ben DeLaney . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Wonwoo Do . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Lauren Dong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Beatrice Fink . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Cesar Florencio Cortes . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Orson Ford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Keara Gabriel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Tristyn Gibson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Emma Grasso . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Mariella Gutiérrez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Yupang Hanna Han . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Hudson Hillin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

Mary Hong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Lasya Hota . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Xinyao Sarah Huang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 Anuj Jain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Willa Jaymes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Harper Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Kameirah Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Anise Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Collin Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Kayla Gyujin Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Ingrid Uma Knap . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Everette Lang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Marilyn Elisabeth Leal . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 Giljoon Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 Madeline Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Jane Liou . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 Ken Longmore . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Anika Mangla . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Edie Murawski . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 Julianne Ounsombath . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Hayden Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 Subin Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 Mara Popa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Tullan Advincula Portock . . . . . . . . . . .101 Dev Rai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 Marcel Rosas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Yossi Eun-Chong Rosen . . . . . . . . . . . 106 Ashley Shim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109 Sabrina Simek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 Keshav Subash . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 Kurn Sundaram . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .113 Jericca Taste . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .115 Leah Weiser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .116 Jordyn Williams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .131 Samantha Wu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132

Sophia Ye . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 Emma Yeon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 Amelia Yuan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140 Jaxon Zepel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 Yan Zhang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144 Jessica Zheng . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Cici Zhu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146

About YoungArts About YoungArts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .151 Notable Winners . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 Guest Artists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 National YoungArts Week Supporters 163 YoungArts Supporters . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 YoungArts Board of Trustees . . . . . . . 167 Staff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168

YoungArts Anthology + Catalogue

Select Works by the 2026 Winners with Distinction in Design, Film, Photography, Visual Arts & Writing

Auset Adams

Film Homeschool Baton Rouge, LA

Black(Out), 2025 Narrative, 6 min., 36 sec.

Isa Bella Althea

Film Renaissance High School Franklin TN

Dripping Stardust on the Precipice of Girlhood, 2025 Experimental, 3 min., 43 sec.

Jasmin Arreola

Photography Alliance Ouchi-O’Donovan 6-12 Complex Los Angeles, CA

Comfort In Similarity, 2025 Digital Photograph

Kaitlyn Bai

Fiction Eastside Preparatory School Kirkland, WA

Yellowgirls Lina was turning seventeen, and she had everything prepared. She had spent $599.99 on a dress that would curb any part of her from overflowing, $129 on a root perm at the local K-beauty salon, and $77 worth of Sephora credits on luxury skincare. For the photos, she had a new Sony digicam and an iPhone 6 she had found in the attic, the former to bathe her skin in artificial glow, the latter to blur her pores into pixels as low-resolution as possible. She had a vision for how she would look in the photos: artsy, wistful, the slightest bit unattainable, and unbearably cool, especially with Lana Del Rey murmuring in the background of the Instagram carousel. How perfect everything was going to be! Twelve girls were coming to her birthday dinner, twelve of the girls she loved most, twelve girls who would show up looking as dolled-up and sugar-sweet as a dozen assorted donuts. Squinting into the mirror, Lina used a pair of tweezers to carefully lay a strip of double eyelid tape above her lash line. People always said not to get any work done until you were in your mid-twenties, but Lina had always known she would get her eyelids slit as soon as she turned eighteen. Slitting eyelids—that’s what her aunts called it in Mandarin. Half of them had gotten their eyelids slit themselves. When Lina was younger, she liked to run her fingertips over those folds, folds that cost at least 5k, as natural as if they had been borne not from the hungry mouth of a scalpel but from the birthright of heritage. For the moment, though, double eyelid tape would have to suffice. Chocolate-brown contacts would also help. As would false lashes, sharp like knives, and a fine dusting of mauve all around her sockets. Makeup was her ritual, sacred. The smells, perfuming around her in alkaline clouds of sweetness, the tingle of chemicals on her palms, the creams, powders, and pigments, the slow chiseling away of every imperfection to reveal the alabaster smoothness underneath, like Michelangelo discovering David in the marble. She would rather die than lose this, she thought to herself. Of course, death was, in reality, as far away from Lina as her grandmother’s Chengdu apartment was from their single-family home on Mercer Island. Still, Lina liked to think about death sometimes. She liked

the romanticism of the idea that she and her friends might go up in flames right as they were having the time of their lives, the end just as magnificent as the beginning. Lina belonged to a very specific breed of girls, a strain of American-born Chinese that any West Coast kid could recognize from no more than a profile picture. Lina was proud of it. She was proud that basically everyone she talked to, texted or partied with was the child of an immigrant, if not an immigrant themselves. She was proud that her friends were exclusively beautiful people from different continents. It was amazing, Lina thought, truly amazing, how all their parents had fought tooth and nail to get where they were today: snatching up master’s and doctorates in a country that didn’t welcome them, seizing job openings at Fortune 500s, relentlessly climbing the ladder of promotions and salary upgrades, smothered all the while in the glorious grit inherent to immigrants. Their mortgages were paid off, they were Upper Middle Class™, they wired their relatives money every month, and their kids went to private schools that fed the Ivies with more interning and researching and nonprofit-founding high-schoolers than they could ever possibly need. Immigrants were survivors, smart and courageous, and Lina and her friends—the inheritors, the next generation—were so full of beauty and prestige that they would burst if they didn’t flaunt it, just a little. That’s what they were going to do tonight: flaunt. Lina and her friends were going out, showing off their newly earned bodies, their new dresses, ushering Lina into a new stage in her life. She let out a sigh. She couldn’t wait. Mā had helped her pick out the dress. It was a dark emerald-green, the color that made her off-white skin as smooth and pale as possible. Last summer she had gone with Mā to get a color analysis done in China, and the aesthetician had told her she was a dark winter, which meant she looked best in deep, ashy shades and jewel tones. Lina smiled as she thought of this, running her fingers over the cloth of the dress, the delicate double-stitching, the all-natural fibers. The women of her family were classy and cool-headed—even their skin tone reflected it. Her aunts, who lived all over

the world, in Singapore and France and Japan, would come to visit Seattle sometimes. Lina adored them all. Many had sent her birthday cake emojis earlier that day, along with generous sums of WeChat money, and, in the case of the more meddling ones, the phone numbers of a few potential suitors. *** The doorbell rang: Maris was here. Lina felt a wave of nerves flutter through her chest. She sucked in her stomach and turned to the side to survey herself one last time. The green fabric hugged her body; the highlighter, pearly, popped on her cheekbone. She felt strange, hot on the inside and cold on the out. She was older now, one year closer to moving out, one year closer to college, one year closer to getting her own place in a big, glamorous city. Adulthood was a soft, shimmering thing, close enough to taste. When she opened the front door, Maris was standing there beaming, her arms full of peonies, her lips a glossy crimson in the light. “Oh my god,” Lina exclaimed, “what are these?” “A gift,” Maris said, grinning. “For the birthday girl.” The flowers were cream-white and powder-pink, all of them fresh, all of them perfect. Laughing, Lina leaned in to hug Maris. She smelled like citrus, sweet and tangy; the fabric of her silk dress melted into butter under Lina’s fingers. Lina had a theory that she and Maris had been twins in their last lifetime. In any case, they were practically sisters in this one. They had met in Chinese class at the ripe age of six, where they trauma-bonded instantly over the laoshi who hit them with a tome of Journey to the West every time they butchered their tones or wrote characters in the wrong stroke order. Eventually, they found themselves side-by-side as they opened their private school decision letters (twin acceptances, to the best secondary school in the state), then side-by-side again when they became stand partners at youth symphony, then again at the local badminton club, at the state science fair, at model UN. By seventh grade, they were inseparable. Lina and Maris, Maris and Lina: organizing annual New Year potlucks between their two families, quizzing each other on competition math until 3 a.m., crying on FaceTime over AP Lang, losing their minds over guys who left them on read, sharing makeup, sharing drinks, sharing lives. Maris had a gravitational pull over Lina that she’d never felt with any of her other friends, or even, for that matter, boys. Between the two of them, they carried a genetic need to outdo, to always be the best in the room. Lina felt Maris’s ribs slotting into her own, her arms snaking around her waist, their two twin hearts beating in sync to the rhythm of perfection.

In Maris’s navy BMW, they exchanged giggly snatches of conversation, bites of gossip. Adam had gotten a 1240 on the May SAT and ended up breaking down in public; Jenna had totaled her new Mercedes; Amber and Blake had broken up after four years of dating; and so on and so forth, all the painful symptoms of being seventeen. The BMW hummed, quickened its pace. In the span of a moment, they were soaring over the I-90 bridge, tunnels of city light and thick evening air around them. Lina closed her eyes as Seattle barreled towards her. She wanted to bottle this feeling, distill it, put it in a little vial and drink from it every time she forgot what it meant to be young. *** The restaurant was dark and pulsing with candlelight. It was a fancy Italian place that Lina had never been to before, but it had a Michelin star and three dollar signs on Google Maps. The server called everyone “madame,” spent several minutes adjusting the angles of the silverware, and brought out water menus for the whole table. Maris snorted as she flipped through the leather-bound book, its thirty options for sparkling and twenty options for still. “I have to say, this feels a little extra.” “Oh, come on, it doesn’t hurt to splurge once in a while,” said Lina, which was something she could say because she knew that all of them were strictly normal people who lived strictly normal lives. They were comfortable, sure, but they weren’t like them—those uber-rich white kids who went to boarding school and flaunted their old money and private chauffeurs. The food turned out to take the shape of tiny pools of sauce on gaping porcelain plates. All the girls ate with their hands over their mouths, their cloth napkins folded neatly on their laps. Lina looked around the table, smiling. It was so satisfying to have all of them gathered here in one place, all these girls with 4.0s and Dyson blowouts and Gel-X nails, these girls with enough awards to match their weight in medals and enough LinkedIn connections to make a headhunter swoon. There in the corner was Adeline, dead set on a career in neuroscience, and beside her was Hana, the future entrepreneur, and beside her Rachel, the lawyer, and beside her Abigail, the aerospace engineer. Someday, Lina thought, the world would belong to them. Adeline pushed aside her empty pasta plate and wiped her mouth. “I wish I was Katie Su,” she complained. “Then I’d be one of those ED girls and I wouldn’t be craving a second plate of pasta right about now.” “Oh, shut up,” Hana said, elbowing her, “you’re skinny enough already.” “Not as skinny as Maris,” Adeline said, nodding her head towards Maris in her cinched black slip. Lina

smiled. It was true. Maris was the skinniest of them all, tall and razor-thin, but not in the walking-corpse way of Katie Su. More like in a 90’s-chic kind of way, or a Faye-Wong-starring-in-Chunking-Express kind of way. Maris rolled her eyes. “Shut up, guys, it’s just genetics.” “Exactly,” Adeline said, sighing. “I wish I had your waist. I would literally pay for it. If only I weren’t so broke.” She turned, suddenly, towards Lina, her eyes lighting up. “You know, Lina,” she said. “I’m so jealous of you, your family is so rich.” Lina laughed. Addy could be so blunt sometimes, but it was endearing. “What do you mean?” Adeline shrugged. “I mean, you’re going to pay for all of this with your own card, right?” “Well, yeah, sure. But it’s not like I do this often,” Lina said lightly. She shifted the caviar on the plate with her fork, watching the translucent black orbs mop through the cream. She had never really liked caviar; it tasted no different from table salt. She wasn’t a snob, after all. Maris snorted. “Come on, Lina, you know that’s not true. Your house has a pool. You fly to China every summer.” “Everyone travels during the summer,” Lina said, more defensively than she had intended. “It’s okay to admit you’re rich, Lina,” said Rachel. “I saved up for months to buy a bag and my mom still wouldn’t let me. But your aunties just get you whatever you want.” She shook her head. “I’m so jealous.” Lina pierced a caviar orb with the tip of her fork. “I mean, we all go to the same school, with the same tuition.” “Lina, it’s just, like, different for you,” said Maris. “Remember that marketing internship you got from your dad? The one for that firm in Beijing? We don’t all have the same connections as you.” Lina stared at Maris. There was a slight smile on Maris’s face, barely perceptible. In her peripheral vision, she saw Adeline glancing towards Hana, Hana glancing towards Rachel. She just laughed. She wasn’t sure what to say. Something warm flushed through the center of her body, a feverish sort of warmth. Maybe it was because she hadn’t eaten all day, but her stomach was starting to hurt. Lina coughed, bringing her napkin to her mouth. “I think I’m going to go to the bathroom.” In the stall, tiled with snaky black marble and gold grout lines, Lina gathered the skirt of her dress and shakily sat down on the toilet. When she pulled down her underwear, a spot of blood stared back at her, small and neat as a piece of punctuation. The bathroom air was sweet with a heavy, artificial vanilla; the salt of caviar, pungent, still lingered at the back of her throat. Lina swallowed a gag. On her birthday, of all days.

“Lina?” A voice echoed through the tall marble hall of the bathroom. It was Maris. “You in there? Are you good? You looked a little pale earlier.” “I’m fine,” Lina said, fumbling, standing up. “I’m seventeen. Don’t worry about me.” She stumbled out of the stall, smoothing down her frumpled dress. “You didn’t have to check on me, you know. Let’s go back to the table.” “Wait,” Maris said, squinting, leaning towards Lina, “Your mascara is smudged. Hold still, I’ll fix it.” With one practiced flick, Maris took her pinky and swiped the makeup off. In that moment, her face was so close to Lina’s that she could feel her hot, liquor-like breath on her mouth and her citrus perfume lacing all around her, as all-consuming as an atmosphere. The tip of Maris’s finger hovered on her face for barely a second, but it was enough: a choir of nerves lit up in Lina and began to scream at that touch, a thousand warning signs blaring deep in her belly, a thousand muffled cries of want. Then Maris moved away, a detached smile playing on her lips. Lina felt two inches tall. The rest of the night passed in confusion. Photos were taken in batches, camera flash smattering through the dark of the restaurant. Lina posed with Megan, with Adeline, with Hana, with Rachel, with all her girls. Everyone sang happy birthday, giggling and off-key, and a quiet, uncertain smile settled in place on Lina’s face, where it stayed and would not budge. She was happy, she told herself. She failed to blow out any of the seventeen candles the first time and laughed awkwardly about it and had to try again. A strand of hair slipped from behind her ear and got caught in the frosting as she leaned down. Maris, laughing, reached to tuck it back; she was so pretty when she laughed, so pretty. Lina stared at her and looked quickly away and took a sip of water and corrected her posture. Then, as quickly as it had started, everything was ending. Lina was hugging all her girls, her body passed from one set of arms to another, a hundred happy seventeens whispered into her ear, a dozen different dresses pressed against her own. By the time she had caught her breath, she was riding shotgun in Maris’s BMW. “That was so fun,” Maris sighed, tapping her manicured nails on the wheel. “So fun,” Lina echoed. “It was perfect.” The highway roar and Maris’s music— pounding, sizzling with synths—filled in the gaps of their silence. Lina exhaled onto the car window and brushed her thumb through the condensation. Night was a dark, saturated blue, velvet on her fingertips, the color of a computer dying. Maris pulled silently into her driveway. They had done this so many times before, sitting side-by-side in

a car in front of Lina’s house. Usually they had more to say, so much more that they would end up gossiping in Lina’s bedroom until the late morning, a summoning circle of energy drinks and essay papers scattered around them. Usually, but not now. “The cake’s in the backseat,” Maris said at last. Lina gave a wavering smile. “Yeah, the cake, right.” She got out of the car and opened the back door, the smell of citrus all around her. Lina felt Maris’s gaze on her like two knives burrowing into the soft of her chest. Citrus, its heady scent. Her mind was going white, the strap of her dress slipping off her left shoulder, night wind brushing at the back of her calves. Trembling, Lina climbed onto her front porch, the box of cake swaddled like a child in her arms. “Good night,” Maris called from her car. “Yeah, good night,” Lina shouted back, and felt something in her drop as she heard the deep hum of the BMW, pulling away, away, away. *** Lina was home. She wiped her forehead; her hand came away covered in sweat. A deep, thrumming discontent was running through her body in waves, up and down and back again. She was aggravated and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe she was just hungry. She had barely eaten anything all day and the restaurant’s measly portions had done nothing to blunt her appetite. She doubted there was anything good in the fridge—likely no more than spinach and firm tofu and yams, non-fat Greek yogurt and kombucha, all the superfoods her mom had read about on Chinese social media. But Lina needed something heavy. Yes, that was right, Lina felt like a piece of paper, like she might evaporate into the stratosphere and never come back to Earth. She needed something to weigh her down. The cake, she thought, the hundred-dollar cake covered in clouds of cream and macerated strawberries. Most of the girls had demurred and eaten little more than a sliver, so the cake was more or less intact. It was nearly 1 a.m. already—she couldn’t eat too much or she would wake up bloated—but just a slice more would do no harm. The hunger, which not even thirty minutes ago had been no more than a dull, ignorable throb, had begun to pound through her stomach with a primal pain, threatening to split her down the middle. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bouquet of peonies Maris had given her, the white as pale as Maris’s skin, the powder pink the same sweet blush as Maris’s cheeks. Lina shook the heels off her feet and stumbled across the living room with the box of cake cradled in her arms, the dress tight as a straitjacket on her body. Then, like the dull rattle of an alarm, Lina felt her phone buzzing against her thigh. When she took it

out, she saw a notification that Maris had tagged her in a story. Instagram unfurled dutifully beneath her thumb, and there it was: Maris had posted the photos from the dinner, the two of them coiled side-by-side at the restaurant table. Lina’s breath quickened as she zoomed in. She saw it there, beneath her eye: the smudge of mascara, like the thin, severed leg of a spider. And there, on her arm, the bulge of fat between the strap of her dress and her armpit, and at her waist, the undeniable shadow of her stomach, so painfully visible under the gaudy green fabric. She could no longer remember why she had chosen to wear green. It looked so stupid, like she was cosplaying as a leprechaun, especially next to Maris, poised so elegantly in her silky black mini. Maris beside her, with her arm wrapped around the thick trunk of Lina’s waist like a guardian angel, was so perfect, so skinny, her skin so clear, her mouth so red. The caption said, “so much love for this gorgeous girl,” next to several green hearts. Lina wondered if she was being mocked. The phone fell through her fingers, clattering onto the tiles. Her hands, of their own accord, seized a fistful of cake and stuffed a cloud of cream into her mouth. It tasted so good she could’ve cried. Strawberries, sweet and slimy, were nestled like gems in the cream. Lina licked them clean from her palm and gnashed them between her teeth, even as their sugarwater fireworked onto her dress. She closed her eyes, savored their taste, their softness, each one as plump as Maris’s smiling mouth had been, the same ruby-red. For a moment, Lina indulged herself: she imagined that she really was devouring Maris, sinking her canines straight through the pout of her bottom lip, sending spurts of syrupy blood in eruptions through the air. She thought of Maris driving in the dark, her music blasting from her speakers, her lips dancing along to the obscene lyrics, her perfect double eyelids fluttering briefly shut with each high of the chorus. Lina wanted her to crash. To imagine!—her face, shattering to pieces, her eyes, yanked open by whiplash, that navy BMW flying right off the side of I-90 to be swallowed by a ravenous Lake Washington. Lina’s mouth tasted like glue, the cake like flavorless paste. How happy she was to be seventeen, she thought, sucking the sludge from her fingers, happier than she had ever been.

Nate Barcot

Visual Arts Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts Houston, TX

Ăn Canh Khổ Qua Thì Khổ Qua (Bitter Melon Ends Suffering), 2024 Acrylic on canvas

Christopher Barker

Photography G-Star School of the Arts Palm Springs, FL

The Spirit Of Me is Haunting Thee, 2025 Digital photograph

Eze Baum

Film Harvard-Westlake Upper School Studio City, CA

Cameraman, 2025 Documentary, 8 min., 50 sec.

Isabel Bhatia

Photography Greenhill School Addison, TX

Fractured, 2025 Polaroid

Syanne Blades

Visual Arts George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology Baltimore, MD

In Wealth We Trust?, 2025 Acrylic paint markers, plexiglass , oil paint

Niamh Carmichael

Fiction Charleston County School of the Arts North Charleston, SC

Big Jo’s Grab ‘N Go Convenience Store and the Unfortunate Guitar I met Duke two months into my first year of college, at a relatively small dorm hall party the floor above mine. When he came in, I was sitting on the couch, plucking out a song on my acoustic guitar. I had begun learning it my senior year of high school because I’d heard it helped you pick up chicks in college, which was minimally successful so far, but I was holding out hope. I’d never spoken to Duke before, but I knew who he was because we had several mutual friends. Although, in truth, I didn’t much like any of them. The worst was Francis, who I saw as overly performative in everything he did. He drove this old beaten-down truck, kind of a rusty brown, real vintagelooking, even though his mom was a real estate agent and his dad some big finance guy in New York and the first car Francis ever drove was a brand-new BMW Z4, cherry red, practically begging for a ticket. I mean, who gives a brand-new BMW Z4 to a sixteen-year-old? But Francis kept the Z4 in his dad’s garage back home and drove that janky old truck with every window down and his arm hanging out and a miniature surfboard dangling from the rearview mirror, his music pumping so loud I thought the car would fall apart panel by panel. The girls went nuts for it, even though he was skinny and beak-nosed and looked to me sort of like a heron. Our campus was so self-contained, he didn’t even need a car. Then there was Parker, who was nice at least, but he was such a sad-writer archetype I felt he’d crawled straight out of Dead Poets Society or something. He had these deep soulful brown eyes and a way of looking at you that you felt you should be grieving something about the state of the world, the loss of some ancient art form or whatever. He was a bummer, that was it. And Zach, who I suspected of probably having roofied girls at some point in his life, and Valentino, the Italian exchange student, and Sophus, whose name sounded a bit like a girl’s but was really just Greek. He wasn’t even Greek himself. I guess his parents just liked the name or wanted him to become a philosopher. Anyways, I was the only scholarship student of any of them, and most of the time it was clear. I came

from a small rural town, and my parents both taught at the school there. I had my mom for tenth-grade algebra and my dad for twelfth-grade English, and the three of us shared our old car until I came to college, which I was only able to do on a full academic ride. And I didn’t like to think about it a lot, but I missed them awfully: my mom with her graying mousy hair and smile lines and homemade pies and my little old dad with his baseball cap and tomato garden. I didn’t think Francis’s finance company father in his New York skyscraper office had ever grown a tomato or sprig of rosemary in his life. All those guys at college were all a bit insufferable, but I hung round with them because they were my friends and it was my freshman year of college, and I wasn’t about to sacrifice all those connections simply because they grated on my nerves. But I’d heard of Duke through them before I met him. I was intrigued by him in the same way I was intrigued by a cult classic movie, or that really popular pizza parlor down the street that everyone in my residence hall couldn’t stop fawning over: whether the widespread interest was for a real reason, or simply the result of the bandwagon effect. He was pretty and popular and word was that his parents were some of the school’s biggest donors, so it was no wonder I heard his name so often. I guess even I was feeding into the mass adoration of this guy by wanting to know him, even if it was to form my own opinion rather than confirm the general one. We had no classes together, so I didn’t meet him until well into the second month of the school year, in a sticky dorm that smelled of beer and sweat and socks, which made sense because I was pretty sure it was Zach’s room. I was strumming something on my guitar, trying to woo this freckled girl with dark-brown hair and dark-brown eyes from my Intro to Latin class, and in retrospect I think Duke’s entrance probably saved her. He came into the room, sauntered almost, looking around to size up the place. He spotted me and pointed. “Yo,” he said, coming over. He sat down on the couch, very cozily between myself and the girl, who

took the opportunity to sidle away and join a friend on the other side of the room. “Pat, right? Patrick?” “That’s me,” I said. “Francis’s friend,” he specified. “Sure,” I said. I sipped from my beer, long grown room-temperature. I was weirdly struck with silence sitting next to Duke. He didn’t speak to me either, even though he’d been the one to come over. He just sat, nursing a bottle and observing the room, while I took the chance to satiate my curiosity and observe him. He had a rich face, I thought. No wonder he hung round with Francis and the rest of the gang. Duke took a sip from his amber-colored bottle and sighed with satisfaction. “Nothing like a cold cream soda to end the day,” he said knowingly. “Cream soda?” I asked, surprised. He nodded. “Beats a beer any day of the week. Trust me. You know what makes it even better?” I shook my head no, I didn’t know. “Vanilla ice cream. Make it a float. You think Zach has any?” He stood up to check the freezer even as I began saying I doubted it. Sure enough, Zach’s freezer was inhabited by only a single red pepper and a purple freeze pop. “I don’t think that’s where you keep the produce,” Duke mused. He whisked the door shut anyway. “What say you we go get some?” “Produce?” I asked. “Ice cream,” Duke said. “I’ll even get you one of these bad boys.” He tapped his bottle. I shrugged. The girl from my Latin class was nowhere to be seen and probably didn’t want to be serenaded any more even if I could find her. And this Duke guy was an intriguing character, if a little legendized. (“He’s the best tennis player this college— nay, this world!—has ever seen.” “He once dated Gisele Bündchen, and he was the one who dumped her.” “He was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize at the age of fourteen.”) Plus, though I didn’t like to admit it, I had a raging sweet tooth, and hadn’t much been able to appease it since leaving home and my mother’s weekly pies. In her monthly care packages, she sent letters expounding upon the delicious flavors of her current bake, cherry or blackberry peach or pecan or whatever, but that she didn’t think it would travel well. I understood but was rueful all the same. I followed Duke out of the dorm room. He almost had to stoop under the door frame. He was tall, taller than me, with long features: a long nose, long limbs, a tall face and forehead that ended in a buzzcut he somehow managed to not make look military. You could tell he was an athlete from his bare calves, welldefined and suntanned below the hem of his shorts.

I thought he’d had his ears pierced at some point but just didn’t have any jewelry in, but he also had a silver bar piercing his left eyebrow. It threw me off a little bit, this tall, suntanned, trust-fund athlete, puka shells around his neck and worn leather flip-flops on, with an eyebrow piercing that looked more as if it belonged to the mournful Parker than jovial Duke. In a place where everyone fit quite neatly into one or two slots, whether it was representative of their inner selves or simply what they presented, to me Duke felt dropped into so many categories that you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. As someone who liked sorting people, this muddled my thoughts. I followed him as he left the residence hall and walked down the street. I didn’t know what phase the moon was in, my planetary science professor would’ve been disappointed in me, but it was bright and nearly full, only missing a sliver. It lit up Duke’s tall forehead and the rest of the street. “Where are we going?” I asked him. “Big Jo’s Grab ‘N Go,” he told me. I had to take a couple quick strides to keep up with his long legs. “Who’s Big Jo?” “Only the best proprietor in the area.” Duke stopped walking suddenly, and I bumped right into him. My chin reached just above his shoulder, and I quickly revised any depictions in my mind of myself as tall. Duke looked (down) at me. “You’ve seriously never been there before?” I shook my head and kept following him down the block. It was his turn to be surprised now. “That’s crazy, man,” he said. “I come here for everything. Ice cream, flip-flops, condoms, bandaids, aloe vera. Once a movie poster for a last-minute birthday present. They even have a little earring stand set up on one of the shelves. More dangly than I like, you know, but if you have a girlfriend or something.” “Nah…” I trailed off, still a little raw from my earlier failure with my Latin class girl. I wondered where she was. I doubted Duke would’ve scared her off like that with a guitar in hand. All these trust-fund guys were the same when it came to girls. They’d flash a confident, winning smile, pick her up in their shiny fancy car (or the opposite kind, if you were Francis), drive off to an expensive restaurant with a mandatory tie policy. I felt like a hick, suddenly, from my small town with my old acoustic guitar, and pictured the girl giggling with her friends about my wooing. I didn’t even own a real tie. I followed Duke in silence, now privately rankling towards him, his type of person. He continued prattling on, but I wasn’t particularly listening. It was a quiet night, a pensive kind of night, and I was looking at the shadows of the trees rippling

against the brick buildings all down the street. It was a nice street. “Anyways,” Duke said. “Here it is!” Not the first time that night, I was caught off guard. I was expecting another several blocks to walk. I was not expecting a place called “Big Jo’s Grab ‘N Go” to be nestled within these trim, uniform buildings with their neat green shutters and flourishing flower boxes off the windows ledges. Duke led me another few feet, turned the corner, and then I saw the small convenience store across the street, haloed in its own green luminescence. The light in the R was out, so the sign above the door read “Big Jo’s Gab ‘N Go,” and given Duke’s chatter on the way here, I found it an apt name for the place he frequented. One of the lights on the street in front of it flickered, giving the entire store an eerie quality, but its fluorescent lights radiated out, an inverted sunspot on the otherwise dim street. It was, I thought, a cheerful place, as far as convenience stores went. A bell dinged as we opened the door. Behind the counter stood a portly man with a pleasant, ruddy face and thick hair tinged ginger. His face was deeply lined from what I imagined to be years of working nights under harsh yellow light bulbs and he wore a striped work T-shirt with a name tag. “Big Jo,” I read, and realized. “The man himself!” “Hey, kid,” Jo smiled fondly, but I didn’t think he was talking to me. “Hey, Dad,” Duke responded, clapping the man on the shoulder as he walked past the counter to the frozen section. “This is Pat.” Dad? I followed Duke dumbly, trying not to let my surprise show. No one really calls me Pat, but I was too distracted by the revelation of Duke’s parentage to correct him. Remembering my manners, I nodded at Big Jo, whose face was friendly and maybe a little sad, too. “Still have that stick in your face, I see,” Big Jo called out after us. “You know it,” Duke responded, smiling goodnaturedly. “Never coming out.” Big Jo sighed resignedly. “As long as you’re on top of your classes, I guess.” “Don’t worry ‘bout me, Dad,” Duke said, grabbing two cream sodas and a pint of vanilla ice cream. “You just focus on the store.” He picked up a plastic spoon and a couple straws from the off-brand Icee station, with its bright flavors swirling around behind their little windows. Cherry, blue raspberry, and dragon fruit kiwi. Interesting option. Tropical. “My favorite flavor as a kid,” Duke explained when he saw me looking. “He has to get it special, but it’s worth it, trust me.”

Big Jo rang up the items and winked at his son. “You boys have a good night now,” he said as we left to sit on the curb outside, the door dinging behind us on the way out. We were silent for a few moments as Duke began making our floats. He was very methodical about it. He had me sip some of my drink first so the ice cream could fit, then placed the soda bottles neatly in the parking spot in front of him, opened the ice cream. Scooped out one even roll at a time, depositing them one by one into each bottle until they appeared satisfactory. Then he stuck a straw in each and handed me mine. He leaned back, sipping. “So,” I started. Duke looked at me evenly. I could tell he was going to weigh carefully what I was about to say. “You get a pretty good discount?” I asked. He chuckled. “Yeah, not bad.” “Do I get a friend discount?” I sipped my float. It was pretty good. Better than my beer, though I would be reluctant to say that around anyone other than Duke. “I don’t know,” Duke shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve never gotten anyone a friend’s discount before.” I stared at him. This coming from the guy who was always surrounded by people. “You’re kidding,” I said. “Nope.” He gestured behind him with his thumb. “Big Jo’s very particular about his discounts. Most of the kids at high school kind of sucked, and most of the kids here don’t know this is my pop’s place.” “Well, how come I do? You just met me tonight.” “For one thing—” he paused, looking at me appraisingly. “For one thing, you were around when I was craving this, and I don’t like running errands alone. For another…I don’t know. You’re a scholarship kid, too. I dunno.” It was the most halting he’d been with his words all night. For the second time, I reworked the perception of someone in my head; this time, instead of my height, it was Duke’s background as the rich, trust-fund kid with the fifty-thousand-dollar car I’d been picturing. I twisted on the cold curb and looked at the store. The sidewalk in front was cracked but pale, probably recently power washed, and the neon lights shone brightly, twinkling out “OPEN 24H” and “VAPE” and “EBT & ATM.” The whole place was effused with a multicolored glow, from the amethyst-hued street lamps to the golden bulbs inside, and maybe it’s just that it was late and I wasn’t wearing my contacts, but the lights seemed to swell out from their centers, past their bounds into the sky, a shining penumbra that pushed back the shadows from the trees on the brick buildings. And I looked over at Duke, sipping on his cream soda float maybe a little nervously, and I settled into the curb.

“This really is very good,” I told him approvingly, although I didn’t think I meant just the drink he’d made. “You really are not very good at the guitar,” he said frankly. I nodded. I knew that already. “Maybe you can teach me sometime,” I said, and he nodded too, and we sat on the curb with our floats and watched the street lamp flicker.

Zack Cheuk

Visual Arts Crossroads School for Arts & Sciences Santa Monica, CA

FEMUR 2025, 2025 Acrylic paint on canvas

Violet Chin

Film Los Angeles County High School for the Arts Los Angeles, CA

“Pete”, 2025 Narrative, 4 min., 26 sec.

Isabella Cho

Design Pacific Academy Irvine, CA

Smart Step 3, 2025 Pen on paper, SolidWorks, KeyShot, Adobe Illustrator, Photoshop, Canva (for stock photos), CAD, renderings

Kayleen Cho

Design Deerfield Academy Deerfield, MA

RE:VEAL 1, 2025 Adobe Illustrator, InDesign

Minjun Sean Choi

Design Newton North High School Newton, MA

Intertwined Space, 2025 PVC foam board, SketchUp, Enscape

Nathan Chong

Design Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts Houston, TX

Kolor, 2025 Rhino, Keyshot, Adobe Illustrator, Photoshop

Ryan Chou

Design Westmoor High School Daly City, CA

AM I AN, 2025 Adobe Illustrator, Photoshop, Figma, drafting pencil, digital camera

Edeline Chung

Visual Arts Valencia High School Valencia, CA

Encased Silence, 2025 Moldable plastic, clay and sticks

Sachiko Clay

Visual Arts Starkville High School Starkville, MS

Framed, 2025 20 gauge copper, wire frame saw, drill press, liver of sulfur patina, metal scribe, spray sealant

Avi Coe-Sullivan

Spoken Word Interlochen Arts Academy Interlochen, MI

On the Edge of 17 17 walking out of the ed clinic, sun hitting my face and i can finally breathe without feeling the emptiness of my stomach yawn like a monster in my rib cage 16 the emptiness of my stomach yawns like a monster in my rib cage and i am so fucking hungry 16 hungry for love 16 hungry to be wanted 16 i learn that only the skinny deserve attention and i crave that more than food so i start restricting 16 15 14 entering high school the dance team room full of mirrors that creep up behind my back until all i see are the mountains of unusable flesh that i call a body 13 i write in my bat mitzvah speech that balance is the most important thing in the world, that you either overindulge or are anorexic, a word i can’t even pronounce with still baby-chapped lips 12 i watch a video in health class about bulimia and all i can think is that doesn’t look so hard 11 t-minus 10 minutes until the end of dinner and my father reaches for the fruit plate to finish what is left because don’t you know his grandparents were starving and how could you ever leave food on the table and 10 my mother’s hand, prominent as a scarecrow, on my father’s shoulder saying stop, saying control yourself, saying count down from 10 and see if you’re still hungry. don’t you know that control comes from

taking what you want and going without it. 9 in a target with my bubby and she says i love how you never ask for anything from the checkout aisle and i do not tell her that i know already that it is a bad thing to wear the same look as my father of ashamed want of ashamed need 8 i watch the adam sandler movie click, watch a man’s choice between a twinkie and a salad destroy his life from the inside out and 7 6 5 obesity awareness videos in preschool telling us the monstrosity of the word fat 4 3 2 1 0 my mother holds me. takes a picture and says, exhausted she’s perfect. it was the last time i would believe it. 1 i take my first steps. we celebrate with ice cream. 2 i say my first words. 3 i use those words to ask for what i want 4 5 i learn the meaning of the verb “to be” as in to be beautiful 6 7 8 the adam sandler movie click tears my heart out and i learn to finish my own damn treehouses instead of putting a fat suit around my self worth 9 in the target with bubby and i ask her to buy me a reese’s peanut butter cup because i am 9 10 i finish the fruit plate because i’m still hungry, mom 11 12

i learn about bulimia and wonder how anyone could ever do that to themselves 13 i live up to my bat mitzvah speech 14 i look exactly the way a dancer should look 15 i never skip a days worth of food just to see how it feels 16 i don’t ruin my family 16 i’m still close with my mother 16 i still have good friends in high school 16 my body fits me 17 i feel the sun on my face and i can breathe all the same.

Alejandro Cohen

Visual Arts Alexander W. Dreyfoos School of Arts West Palm Beach, FL

Self Portrait 2, 2025 Oil on paper

Kiyomi DallasKidd

Film San Domenico School San Anselmo, CA

Luisa, 2025 Animation, 2 min., 20 sec.

Ben DeLaney

Film Warhill High School Williamsburg, VA

PIXEL, 2025 Animation, 7 min., 38 sec.

Wonwoo Do

Photography McLean High School McLean, VA

Strive for Survive, 2024 Digital photograph

Lauren Dong

Visual Arts Boston Latin School Boston, MA

Warmth, 2025 Porcelain with cobalt oxide and clear glaze

Beatrice Fink

Fiction Fine Arts Center Greenville, SC

Grapefruit The house was made of wood, mostly. That’s how it was described to them when they bought it: a quaint, mostly wooden house, with a pit inside. A hole, the man had asked incredulously? A conversation pit, or something with a pendulum, perhaps? He and his wife got a chuckle out of this, but the realtor wasn’t as amused. No, a pit, like in fruit. Have you not read James and the Giant Peach? It’s lovely, my toddler adores it— this little boy, he goes and he— Yes, the woman had said, of course we’ve read it. But what do you mean by a pit? Well, it’s wrinkled like one, the realtor had said, twirling his mustache which was too short to be twirled properly, so became mostly lopsided instead. This had made the couple laugh again, and they liked to laugh—they didn’t know how to laugh in their own house, a sack-like place that was somehow always too warm and leathery and leaning on them as they ate their suppers, so they bought the house without looking inside. It was cheap—dirt cheap, like the dirt it might have grown in—and they’d taken that for another joke—their house the fruit. They’d hired two trucks to help bring their belongings, but only filled one. These all reek of the old house, the man had said, waving to the masses of clothes heaped on the bed. And these, love, said his wife, with a gesture at the boxes on the floor. They agreed that the cutlery was worth saving—that, and the few solid oak furnishings they had, all wedding presents and tricky to lift. For curtains, though, and lamps, they wanted to see the inside of the new place first. I hope we won’t have to paint, the woman sighed on the drive there. She and her husband wanted to spend all the money on rugs and new socks, if they could. From the outside, the house was all they’d hoped. Unlike the sterile, white boxes their new neighbors peered from, it had smooth, deep pink siding and two front-facing windows bordering a green-painted door. Well, the man said, it looks just peachy to me, and the couple walked in laughing. Let’s look for the pit, the woman said in the equally pink entryway—then we’ll have our focal point in mind. Later, they wondered if there could have been some mistake with the listing, and they called their

realtor about it. Yes, he said when he answered the phone, what is it? He said this in such a way that the couple knew he must be trying to twirl his mustache at the same time, and the man mentioned this to the woman. They laughed, but the realtor did not. Surely, he said, there’s no problem with the house. No, no—the woman was apologetic, and her husband chimed in— it’s just that it was advertised as being something like a stone fruit, and it’s not. What is it then, said the realtor from the line’s other end. Well it’s more like citrus, if you take our meaning, said the man. I’m not sure that I know the difference, said the realtor, and I’m not sure that it matters. Did you go in and see the pit you were telling us about? the woman asked. No, said the realtor, I never do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really don’t want to—and he hung up the phone. The couple crouched in the space which might have been a living room, had it not been so full, and looked around. Nothing for it then—we’ll have to keep it, the man said, and grinned when the woman did. Rather than a singular, rough-hewn center, the house was filled with seeds. Each room had at least one—pale and waxy, jutting out of the walls or hanging by rope-like protrusions from the ceiling. Some rooms had more—they’d set up their mornings in the east wing, which got the best light, and had to contort around them at the breakfast table. In their old house, the space with this function had been called the breakfast nook. Here, it was vesicle one. Their bedroom was vesicle two, the foyer three, and so on; all branching out from the same central hallway, always looping back to it. The couple had decided not to paint anything—every wall was colored the same, jewel pink, and they spent a day with sponges and soaped water, scrubbing them to a loose shine. They bought matching curtains and hung them. After a few weeks of settling in, the couple opened their doors to their friends and the man’s parents, baking three different kinds of quiche in an effort to please. Most of their friends only smiled and hugged them and said things like, well, I’m sure you’re glad to be out of the old house. The woman nodded and nodded, and the man did too. Instead

of waiting for hugs when his parents arrived, they instigated the action. It’s important to present a united front, the man had said earlier, when they were still preparing. Yes, assert our dominance somewhat, hmm? His wife had agreed, laughing. When the older couple’s arms had been fully extracted from theirs, they demanded opinions. It’s dark, said the man’s mother, raising to her mouth a piece of ground sausage she had dug out of its surrounding egg, but it should suit you well enough. The man’s father had returned from the guest bathroom with the framed picture of the realtor the couple kept in there—so that he’d feel welcome if he ever came—and the man’s father held it up and complimented the man’s mustache. Later, when everyone had left, the couple drew the curtains shut. I think, said the woman, that I am loving this house more every day. She was trailing one hand up and down the sleek, outer layer of a seed, and leaning her head against the man’s shoulder. He had just finished laying out the last of the hallway rugs with her, and stretched across one. The couple had waited until the party was over to spread them. Both, thinking of the quiche bits tracked everywhere, were glad they had. The rugs, all custom-sized shag runners, covered the floor of each hallway in sparkling white. Like walking on pith, they had explained to the sales representative at the carpeting store. Each footprint made a perfect impression in the long piling. Very soon, the couple took to spending their days in the house, as well as their nights. Won’t money be an issue? the woman’s supervisor had asked when she quit, not unkindly. Oh, no—the woman raised a gentle laugh, and her husband patted her hand—our house was dirt cheap, you see, and we’ve as many nest eggs as a fly lays. They spent a week reading, replacing the air filters in the house, and stockpiling food and bottled drinks—mostly sweet, canned things, to combat the sour tinge always in their mouths. Each morning was spent in the sun beneath the kitchen windows, and each night reclined in the dark, pink shade. The final weeks of summer passed, alongside the first of fall, and at last, as autumn stretched and snapped into a thin winter, rooms which had been pleasantly cool the previous seasons took on a morbid chill. Love, the woman wondered from the middle of a blanket, should we up the thermostat? Her husband unwrapped one of the scarves from his face to respond, but didn’t need to—she’d grown

used to deciphering the mumbles which wool fringe and sherpa made from words. They rose together from the floor and linked arms beneath their comforter, which they had dragged from their bed a week prior, along with the dregs of their closet. They could still access the kitchen and walk-in pantry, still navigate the main hall down to the front door, but the seeds were growing. Some of the smaller rooms, passages, had been blocked off entirely. They could have left. Of course they could have, but they were so used to the house. They admired their rugs again as they walked down the hall, faces red with cold and the grapefruit-stained half light reflected off their walls. Right, left, past vesicle three. As they walked, the less-frequented lengths of wall displayed first ripples, bulges in the paintwork—then farther on, the paint split atop dozens of pearl-like mounds, the effect coming together into a dozen senseless mosaics. Still, the only temperature control panel in this wing lay ahead. The going got slow. For a while they tried, half-heartedly, to clamber over the seeds which had erupted large in their path. The man pressed his cheek to peer through the opening between two of them, slick and gleaming, at the thermostat. It’s cracked, he whispered to his wife—one of them grew through it. She only nodded, and led the procession back to the innermost room. Beside them, twilight slipped through its stages unobtrusively, brushing shadows like bruising and then deep rot through the slit between the curtains. The couple sat surveying the room, their scattered bedding and clothing, the remnants of their meals. Spring is coming, the woman said idly. The man dipped his head. Yes, spring and heat and yellow light. A pause, then—do you want to leave the house, love? She smiled—no. Me, neither. They curled in the center of the floor, passing sips of canned fruit back and forth, until at last the man slept. Neither of them wore a watch, but the woman waited, and called the coldest time the witching hour in her mind, after her mother’s midnight superstitions. She sat vigil until it had passed, then roused her husband. We should bundle up, she said. There’s no point in saving clothes we can’t clean anyway. They shed, briefly, their blankets, shrugging on limp sweaters and swimming trunks, socks, the few pieces of clothing they hadn’t left at the old house. They’d meant to replace it all before now—but life and the house got in the way.

The man wrapped himself in a stark sheet and watched his wife, having already donned her other clothes, wedge into her unbagged wedding dress. It was a long, cream affair, shivering all over with lace and little globules of sequins—a stain he’d never pointed out to her remained from their cake that day. At the scalloped waistline a ribbon stretched, and the woman left the gown’s beaded sleeves to hang empty under her arms like chrysalises, but the dress just fit, unzipped, over all her layers. Together they sagged onto the floor beneath the kitchen table for the rest of the night, oblivious as the sun rose crisp over new snow outside. The couple had spoken to their friends, the man’s parents, months before—we’re going on a sabbatical, they said, somewhere far away. We’re not sure when we’ll be back. In truth, they had only retreated to the house. No one will come, they reasoned, and we’ll be out soon. They hadn’t said anything to the neighbors. Across the street, while the couple slept and ate and lived within, the others on their block watched from their yellow windows as seeds began to pierce the house’s siding. Didn’t someone live there? They muttered to themselves, don’t they still? In the end, it was one of the older men—a new grandfather—who rallied the others. They came in a cluster of red scarves and puffer coats to the green front door, mittened fists muffling knocks. What if someone’s dead in there, a woman cried, as the others forced in the door. They didn’t bother to scrape the snow from their boots as they trode down the long, thickly-rugged hallway to the back of the house. What if there’s only bones, the same woman said again. The couple had left the kitchen door ajar after their quest through the unconsumed portion of the house the night prior. The neighbors pushed it open to find a blade of pale light pushing across the shapes on the floor. Oh, someone cried in poorly-concealed disgust, just look at them. The couple woke, bleary and startled as clouds before hail, and met the gazes of neighbors they had not seen in months. They slouched into each other beneath the table, away from the crowd, the woman’s legs wrapped so completely in the train of her dress that they appeared silk and skinless. The man shook his sheeted head and slunk back into a table leg as a cry went up from the neighbors. What, what is it, yelled a grandmotherly sort who was late to the party, joining from the edge of the crowd. Worms, the neighbors bayed in response, looking down at the couple—the house is full of worms.

Cesar Florencio Cortes

Photography Harvest Collegiate High School New York, NY

reunidos, 2022 Film photograph

Orson Ford

Film Los Angeles County High School for the Arts Los Angeles, CA

Coach, 2025 Narrative, 4 min., 44 sec.

Keara Gabriel

Visual Arts Miami Arts Charter School Miami, FL

Thorns, 2024 Graphite powder, pencil

Tristyn Gibson

Nonfiction South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities Greenville, SC

Thought Cabinet Thought 11. The FDA announced a shortage of amphetamine mixed salts in October of 2022, stating, “the FDA is in frequent communication with all manufacturers of amphetamine mixed salts, and one of those companies, Teva, is experiencing ongoing intermittent manufacturing delays,” which explained the consensus among pharmacies that they did not have enough supply; a 2022 National Community Pharmacists Association survey found that 64 percent of independent pharmacies were having challenges obtaining Adderall, and despite the official FDA statement released on October 14, Formulary Watch—a peer-reviewed drug management journal—first reported on the issue in early September. Thought 17. It’s terrifying to lose control of something I’ve had relative authority over my entire life. Thought 24. People seem to know when I’m unmedicated, and they often point it out, and I don’t really know how to react to that, because it’s like they’re saying I’m acting uncharacteristically, which means that the medicated version of myself is the one they think is normal, so I have reasonably concluded that their idea of who I am is not the same as who I’ve known myself to be. Thought 19. I know that some things can’t be helped. Thought 20. Adderall can elevate heart rate and blood pressure by causing the heart to beat faster and with greater force, Adderall can cause irregular heartbeat, Adderall can damage blood vessels over time, longterm use can weaken the heart muscle. Thought 16. I’ll be lying in bed when, suddenly, there is the visceral sensation of my teeth being pulled into the back of my throat, I cannot breathe, and if I do not break out of this trance quickly enough—resist the physical surrender of my body, exercise willpower,

sit up in the brief window that follows the sudden pressure in my ears but precedes the immobility—I will either lose my teeth or I will die of what I assume will be cardiac arrest because my heartbeat pounds in my ears like a war drum every single time I am subjected to this phenomenon (five times so far, at the least). Thought 29. In 1798, Sir Alexander Crichton noted a condition characterized by “inability of paying steady attention to one object.” Thought 13. I’ve been on and off a myriad of ADHD medications ever since I was in kindergarten, where my condition first manifested as severe behavioral issues, ranging from a refusal to do my schoolwork, hiding under desks, sleeping in class, throwing pencils, throwing rocks, eating paper, screaming, crying, kicking, ignoring instruction, running from administrators, completely shutting down, and slamming my head against the wall. Thought 30. In the 1930s, researchers first began studying the effects of stimulant medications on children with what would now be known as ADHD-like symptoms, and it was found that said medications could improve attention and reduce hyperactivity. Thought 22. ADHD is one of the most common neurodevelopmental disorders in children, affecting one out of 10 children aged 3 to 17, and under the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA), Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI), and Supplemental Security Income (SSI), ADHD is considered a disability that significantly impairs one’s major life activities. Thought 43. ADHD is not exclusive to children, ADHD is a neuro-behavioral condition, there is no cure and the majority do not outgrow it.

Thought 1. Imagine that I am an oil well, that I have untapped potential. Thought 4. It is 2022 and I am a freshman in high school, I am on the bus and I am sitting alone, my Adderall has not kicked in and I am exhausted, I have not realized that I am depressed and I will not realize I ever was until I try to articulate how I felt during this time some years later, my knees are propped up against the blue faux-leather bus seat and my feet are becoming static, my tail bone is beginning to hurt because I’m contorting myself in a way that allows me to almost lie down and bus seats are rarely well cushioned, the bus is raucous and chaotic, my eyes are closed and the sun often pushes through that thin layer of skin, I clench my jaw and breath through the gaps in my teeth because my nose is clogged, I’ve memorized every turn and every stop, I did not have time to eat and my feet are really beginning to lose sensation, the ride lasts for 40 minutes and I never actually fall asleep, I believe I am better rested by the end of it and it takes me a long time to learn that isn’t true. Thought 15. Recently, I’ve had trouble sleeping. Thought 5. I take 30 mg of a drug that is only different from methamphetamine—yes, the hard drug, the one you think of when you see a disturbingly animated, skeletal, lithe, gangly old man that cannot seem to stop moving no matter how hard he tries; speed, crank, ice, most famously meth—by a single methyl group attached to the nitrogen atom. Thought 6. Adderall is like a performance enhancer. Thought 42. I am more than likely addicted. Thought 34. ADHD affects executive functions such as planning, organization, and decision making, meaning that individuals may struggle to weigh pros and cons, prioritize options, and make timely choices. Thought 23. I have never thought that having ADHD was a disability, but I have been told that it is, and that I do indeed struggle in ways that are apparently much more obvious to the people around me than to myself, as if

I am somewhat blind to my shortcomings, or, maybe, desensitized to the difficulty of things that aren’t meant to be anywhere near as difficult as they have been my entire life. Thought 18. It’s as if my body falls asleep before my brain does, and I still don’t know what causes it (working theories: prescriptionary side-effects, stress, voodoo magic, excessive fatigue, stress again, particularly bad days, withdrawal). Thought 8. There’s a very strong connection between the concept of identity and the act of becoming unwound, so identity crises make sense because of course people would be a little stressed when confronted with the idea that they don’t know what makes them who they are, or the idea that they aren’t who they thought they were, or maybe the idea that they are— unfortunately—exactly who they thought they were, I mean it’s one of those fundamental questions that you kind of have to ask yourself at some point, and there’s just a ton of people who can’t manage to come up with an answer they like and it destroys them in a way you can’t grasp, but you can tell there’s some sort of science to it, like watching an autopsy; a gentle removal of the insides. Thought 35. Writing isn’t a stable way to make a living, but I don’t know what else to do. Thought 28. I dislike having to be told. Thought 37. I always feel like I am running out of time. Thought 21. People prescribed stimulants such as Adderall and Ritalin were 17 percent more likely to have cardiomyopathy at one year and 57 percent more likely to have cardiomyopathy at eight years compared to those who were not taking these medications. Thought 7. I follow a different pattern of thinking on Adderall: logical, pragmatic, academic, curious, selfcontained, utterly better and not at all who I normally am (possession, persona, alter ego, a wedge between the two sides of the brain, spirit-hosting, moodswinging, doppelgänging, symbiosis, élan vital), and when I first realized this, in 2022, I began to implode

in a silent, contained crisis that I did not share and eventually came to terms with, because not knowing who you are is better than not being anyone worth knowing. Thought 14. There was a lengthy period of time where my parents were trying to find a medication that worked without exaggerating my already hard-to-manage emotions, for a while I didn’t have any medication at all. Thought 39. The biggest factors that affect the duration of withdrawal are the dose, frequency, and time someone took Adderall, people who took larger doses more frequently and for longer periods of time can expect withdrawal symptoms to last longer. Thought 31. I wonder what my life would be like if I randomly decided to never take my prescription again, or if the world ran out of it entirely, or if it simply stopped working one day, because a friend of mine’s mother quit Adderall—I don’t know how high the dose— and it apparently took her a month before she was productive again, and I wonder if I would have it worse off than she did, I wonder if I would ever be able to recover, after all, I am rarely happy with myself while unmedicated and it’s entirely possible that I would stay that way, but, while frightening, I don’t think I’d ever willingly stop. Thought 40. The highest dose for Adderall XR is 30 mg, which I have taken every morning for years, and will continue to take for, I assume, the rest of my life. Thought 26. I am aware of this. Thought 2. Imagine that hands aren’t enough, I need a tool to dig past the dirt, mud, and fertile soil, to get down and dirty and covered in liquid gold, because it isn’t something I can do on my own, and while I don’t want it to be that way, nobody wants to have a crutch, there isn’t another way of doing things in which things get done—imagine that I am two people at once. Thought 12. The most arduous periods in my life have usually been characterized by a lack of health insurance due to financial strain at home.

Thought 9. Adderall XR is the extended release variant of the more common Adderall IR, and its primary function is to lengthen the amount of time Adderall stays in the system, and it does this through a dual-bead system where one half of the beads in the capsule are protected by an enteric coating designed to resist the acidic environment of the stomach, only dissolving after reaching the smaller intestine roughly four hours after digestion. Thought 33. I worry that I won’t have another chance to be this close to the people I care about, to pursue my passion this feverously, to have enough time in a day to do whatever I want because there is a lot I want to do, I’m certain that there will always be a lot I want to do, but I’m also certain that things will change and that I won’t like how they turn out. Thought 3. I want to know which version of me people prefer to be around but I am afraid to ask. Thought 38. I have abused Adderall in order to stay up all night. Thought 41. People who have used regular Adderall begin feeling withdrawal sooner than those who have taken Adderall XR; withdrawal from Adderall XR may last weeks longer than typical Adderall because it takes longer for the body to detox. Thought 25. I’m unpredictable, often irritable, and—I assume—hard to be around. Thought 45. I’ll probably just have to live with that. Thought 36. I’ve been considering law, because my mother was once a court reporter, and my grandfather is currently a judge, and people have said that I would make a good lawyer, and while that really doesn’t mean anything, I haven’t written off the idea. Thought 27. I am very loud, I tend to talk over people, I never believed I struggled with sitting still until recently where—while trying to study, unmedicated—I couldn’t sit still, I have noticed that my friends seem to grow tired of me much quicker than I grow tired of them, I realize that

I am yelling after I yell, I have been told to tone it down via every medium of communication, I try to control myself, I spend money impulsively, I am excitable, I distract and upset people, my friends have to try and force me to do my work as if I am a child, I need to put my responsibilities in a list or else they will overwhelm me, I try to control myself, I am not upset when I am told to stop talking. Thought 32. I am the happiest I’ve ever been—I worry that I am the happiest I will ever be. Thought 44. Approximately two-thirds of children diagnosed with ADHD continue to experience symptoms late into adulthood, with challenges that persist throughout their lifespan. Thought 10. Adderall was approved by the FDA in 1996 to treat Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and narcolepsy, and it came with a list of very well documented side-effects: euphoria, caused by an overload of dopamine; suppressed appetite, also caused by higher dopamine levels as the brain’s reward system is overridden, which in turn interferes with the desire to eat; difficulty sleeping, due to an increase in the neurotransmitters that impact wakefulness; false confidence, believing that you are performing better than you really are, the illusion that you are talented.

Emma Grasso

Design Design and Architecture Senior High Miami, FL

Her Majesty (graduate collection), 2025 Tulle, cotton, brocade, velvet, foam, wadding, boning, filament, zippers, thread

Mariella Gutiérrez

Film Oakland School for the Arts Oakland, CA

Stray Kitty, 2024 Animation, 2 min., 58 sec.

Yupang Hanna Han

Poetry Emma Willard School Troy, NY

Poem about Us We rent a room above the market in Hanoi. You push the shutters open and squint at the haze— the street below already restless with the clang of bicycles. Morning peels open in metal and heat. Vendors call out the names of herbs: basil, coriander, lemongrass. You brush a thumb across the sweat on my wrist, say I look breakable in this light. Fishmongers lift their silver scales onto blocks of ice. The smell of star anise threads through the alleys, tangled with incense burning at the pagoda gate. Our coffee arrives in chipped glasses. You read the headline about another flood, the paper trembling slightly from the ceiling fan’s breath, leaving a faint smear of ink on your thumb. You fold the sheet into a narrow envelope and drop it through the railing into the river’s slow brown current. “News is only heavy if you keep it,” you murmur. During the war with America, Vietnamese soldiers hid their letters inside jars of rice, buried them beneath the floorboards, to keep them from soldiers’ fires. Some dampened in floodwater; some turned to ash in shellfire. Years later, one man returned to claim his words and found only mildew and silence — the house a sagging shell, shutters unhinged, roof tiles scattered like dry leaves. We leave the market, following the line of red flags toward the river. I think of those vanished letters, how small human heat disappears without a trace, and how your hand almost brushes mine — as if our nearness, too, might be lost to weather or time or hunger. We see a girl drags her kite through the dust, her sandals kicking little flares of sand. She stops, watching a dragonfly spark green in the sun, its wings a brief glitter over the road, its tail catching for a heartbeat in the low electric wires.

Hudson Hillin

Film Windward School Los Angeles, CA

Instant, 2025 Narrative, 9 min., 59 sec.

Mary Hong

Design Orange County School of the Arts Santa Ana, CA

Part 4 Blind Justice - Scale Models, 2024 Resin, wood, illustration board, acetate board, cloth, thread, digital rendering

Lasya Hota

Fiction Horace Greeley High School Chappaqua, NY

The Skin I Bury selkie (Scottish and Irish folklore, noun): a mythical creature that resembles a seal in the water but assumes human form on land. *** They say I was humming when they found me— seven years old, half-drowned on the rocks, the sea still storm-wracked and foaming like it hadn’t decided whether to give me up. I lay curled there, flung like sea-spill, hair clinging to my spine in salt-hardened ropes. My skin, bruised and cold, blurred into the gray light. But I was breathing. Just barely. The woman who pulled me from the tide wrapped me in her yellow coat, heavy with damp wool and the scent of smoke from her kitchen. “Poor thing,” she whispered. Her husband lingered at the sand’s edge, jaw tight and boots half-buried. “Should we call someone?” “Later,” she said, voice stretched thin by the wind. “She’s only a girl.” They named me Mira. A name like smooth stone, rolling easily off the tongue. Even as they wiped the salt from my eyes, I knew I wasn’t from here. Not really. *** I remember my first birthday with them. White shoes, stiff and polished, smelling of glue. I cried—not from pain, but from how wrong it felt to walk in silence. No slap, no squelch, no echo. The other kids stared as if I’d broken some invisible law. I stared back, trying to map the space between myself and them. My parents—well-meaning, but careful—tried. They packed lunches neatly, hummed while folding laundry, and made sure the house smelled of warm bread. My father would peek over his paper and catch my eye, a faint smile in his eyes, and I thought maybe he understood a little. My mother always asked if I wanted to help with the garden, and I’d nod, but I never really knew how to answer her soft, open questions. I was polite, but I felt like a shadow pressed against the edges of their lives. Baths became my refuge. I would sink beneath the water until the noise of the world blurred to a hush. There, the pressure behind my eyes would ease. There, the burn in my throat would fade.

Sometimes I imagined slipping entirely beneath, becoming nothing but water and memory. My mother would knock gently. “Still in there?” “Yeah.” “You okay?” “Mhmm.” I was always okay. I smiled, dried my hair with the towel she left out, and packed my bag. I was fine. I was safe. I was drowning in all the right ways. *** Juniper appeared the first afternoon I wandered the shore. She crouched near the rocks, a jar in her hands, like she carried secrets too delicate to speak aloud. “Are you spying, or just really into barnacles?” Her voice cracked the hush of wind and water. “Just watching,” I said. “I didn’t know people actually came out here.” “Most don’t,” she shrugged. “That’s kind of the point.” I took a careful step closer. The jar held a couple of tiny crabs, skittering over each other like they knew a map I couldn’t see. “You’re not gonna keep them, are you?” I asked. “No,” she laughed softly. “I just like watching how they move. They’re…busy.” We stood a while, neither speaking, the tide curling around our feet. I picked up a piece of sea glass, smooth and pale, and held it out. “Here.” She took it, fingers warm. Her gaze lingered on mine longer than curiosity demanded. That was when I noticed the quiet calculation behind her eyes—a measuring, almost imperceptible. We began walking the shore together after that—sharing a laugh at a crab pinched by a wave, lingering in the pauses where words felt unnecessary. I told her about the tidepools as if revealing a secret. She listened, never rushing to fill the silence, and I liked that. *** The attic had always been off-limits. Not through locks or warnings—just a subtle air that pressed against curiosity, as if the house itself exhaled a quiet refusal. That summer afternoon, however, the walls pressed too tightly against me. The floors beneath me ached with memory, and something inside me itched— something sharp, impatient. And so I climbed.

The abandoned room met me like a frozen breath. Dust motes drifted in shafts of sunlight, suspended like tiny ghosts. Old trunks leaned against walls, surfaces mottled with mildew, leather cracked and smelling of time. Floorboards groaned under my tentative steps, a low, complaining chorus. My hand hovered over one trunk, heart drumming in my throat. I lifted the lid. The air inside smelled of brine and something older still—like salt trapped in folds of yellowed lace, whispers of fur and seaweed. There, folded carefully beneath fraying blankets, lay sealskin. Gray-blue-violet shimmered like moonlight caught in restless waves, cold and alive even under my fingertips. I pressed it to my cheek. Sharp, electric salt cut through me, memory searing along the nerves in my spine. I knew, before I even wrapped it around me, that nothing would ever be the same. *** That night, I returned to the shore. The wind was restless, carrying the storm’s taste. Waves struck the rocks in erratic rhythm, the whole ocean moving like a cradle with teeth. I walked barefoot through the dunes, the sealskin heavy in my arms, each step sinking into the cold sand. The horizon flickered with lightning, turning the water silver, then black again. By the time I reached the tide line, rain had begun—a fine mist at first, then needles. The sea stretched before me, dark and waiting. I hesitated, the skin trembling against me like it already knew what came next. When the first wave touched my feet, the cold climbed fast. The world tightened, sound thinning to heartbeat. I wrapped the skin around myself, and everything broke open. Pain shot along my spine, bright as lightning, sharp as ice, and my bones stretched with it, joints twisting into angles that should not exist. Flesh and sinew pulled and twisted, lungs folding, burning, brimming with something that was not quite air. Hair rose along my arms, bristling, and my teeth itched, nails elongating and snapping like brittle twigs in a storm. Every shift rolled through me as one violent strike. I gasped, body writhing, chest pounding with a pulse that was not entirely mine. Visions from the attic spun around me, floorboards tilting like rolling waves. My sight blurred, then sharpened with uncanny clarity—I saw every shadow in the corners of my eyes, the dust motes twisting like sparks of fire, the air vibrating with a language I could almost understand. Salt and brine poured through me, rushing in rivers beneath my skin. My spine arched in ways that

should have been impossible, vertebrae stretching into an unfamiliar rhythm. My fingers fused, then split, webbing forming between them, strong and delicate. I clawed at the floor, trying to ground myself, but even the wood beneath my hands felt alien, pulsing like a heartbeat. I felt my face pull taut, lips thinning, eyes widening, pupils darkening, reflecting the gray-blue sheen of the skin. My chest shuddered and then came the final tear—my lungs, as human, could not hold. I gasped, spilling myself half into the wet sand: skin splitting, hair slicking, my bones finally realigning with wet, grotesque precision. The world screamed and fell away. Hours—or maybe minutes—passed, but I willed myself not to cry. Instead, I held the transformation— the one part of me that had felt true enough for a long time. When I finally rose, unsteady but whole, the night remained silent, even the ocean waves subdued into a soft rhythm. I carried the skin down to the dunes, finding the narrow pocket of sand I had marked long ago. My hands dug carefully, tracing the familiar hollow between stone and drift. I pressed the sealskin into the sand, shaping a cradle around it with fingers slick and trembling, burying it just enough to hide it from curious eyes, leaving a trace only I would recognize. For a moment, I lingered there, listening to the muted heartbeat of the ocean, imagining it as a promise: Nothing would be the same. *** Juniper had been watching me for weeks, though she never said a word. I could feel it—her eyes lingering when gulls startled me, the way her gaze followed my fingers unmoored in the water. That evening, she appeared at the seawall. Knees tucked to her chest, hands tracing idle patterns in the stone. She didn’t speak. She just waited, quiet, her presence folding around me like a held breath. I shifted, throat tight, fingers curling into the sand. She tilted her head slightly, studying me, as if tracking the space between us. My pulse couldn’t help but jump. Finally, I reluctantly whispered, almost to myself, “I—there’s something you should see.” Her gaze narrowed, curious but careful, and for the first time, I noticed the way she watched not just what I did, but how I did it. She wasn’t just looking—she was paying attention, measuring me. We walked down to the sand. My hands shook as I pulled the skin from my bag and laid it out. Juniper’s eyes widened. She leaned forward just slightly, hands fidgeting at her knees. “Is this yours?” I nodded. “I wear it sometimes. It’s how I can be in the water.”

Her hand hovered over it, fingers twitching like she wanted to touch but didn’t. “You mean you become like a seal?” I met her eyes, steady. “Yes.” Her mouth pressed into a line. She didn’t look afraid. She looked like she was trying to understand, but also trying to memorize me, piece by piece. I felt my chest tighten in a way I didn’t expect—her attention, so sharp and concentrated, felt electric. “I want to see it,” she said carefully, in a certain reassurance that was more for herself. “I want to know what that’s like.” I hesitated, but I wanted her to watch, so I nodded anyway. She crouched lower, fingers curling around her knees, eyes darting to the skin, then back to me. Every subtle shift—the way I hesitated, the way my hands wavered—seemed to draw her in closer, though she stayed still. Her gaze was heat and weight both, and I didn’t know whether to shrink from it or lean into it. When she finally spoke, her voice barely carried over the surf, it was hesitant, almost cautious. “Does it…feel different?” I held the edge of the skin between my fingers, tracing the curve of the seam, pressing my palm against its slick surface. My mouth opened and closed, still searching for the answer. “It’s…like it knows me— the sea. Like I’m supposed to be there.” Her eyes flicked to mine, wide and quiet, a tension coiled in her expression. She didn’t say anything after that, but I could feel her wanting— wanting to reach out, wanting to understand—but holding back. The wind whipped around us, sharp and briny, and I let it fill the silence. I didn’t have to explain more. Her attention settled like sunlight on my skin, insistent but gentle, and for the first time, I didn’t feel entirely alone in being seen. *** A few nights later, she returned. The tide was lower, the wind sharp in my face. I hadn’t told her where I’d hidden the skin, but she found me anyway, standing at the edge of the surf. She crouched a few feet away and just watched. I could feel her taking everything in—the way I flexed my fingers, the shiver when the cold water licked my skin, the quick intake of breath when a wave tipped too far. She had a notebook in her lap, pen hovering, scribbling notes quietly. “Why are you writing it down?” I questioned in alarm. She looked up at me without hesitation. “I want to remember. I want to see how you do it. I want to know what happens.”

Her words soothed whatever fear had existed, and instead, I felt a thrill run through me. She was looking at me so intently, dissecting every motion, and I liked it. I liked how her attention held me; and the secret between us. “You’re studying me again,” I said, half-laughing. “Maybe,” she admitted, smiling faintly. “But you’re worth studying.” I laughed properly, letting the sound spill over the water. She watched me laugh, watched my chest rise and fall, the tiny tremor in my fingers. And I let her. Let her watch. Let her hold all these pieces of me in her gaze. It made me feel alive in a way nothing else did. I moved in the water, small motions at first, letting her catalog each flick of my hand, each tilt of my head. She didn’t look away. She never crossed the line. But the intensity—her deliberate attention— unsteadied me. I had never wanted someone to watch me like this, and now I couldn’t imagine not letting her. *** Weeks later, the air by the sea had soured— heavy with the tang of decay, like the ocean had swallowed something it didn’t want to keep. I followed the narrow path down to the shore, sand grinding in my shoes, the wind tugging at my sleeves. The call of the water hummed in my chest the way a heartbeat does after running—low, steady, and impossible to ignore. The beach looked the same at first. Then my eyes caught on the hollow between two rocks, the place I always went, the place I trusted. Something was wrong. The pocket of sand where I’d hidden it lay too smooth, too still, like the ocean had come in secret and scrubbed me out of it. I knelt quickly, my hands clawing through the damp grains until they stung. Every handful came up empty. Only the shape of where it should’ve been remained: a faint outline, an indentation in time. The world felt too quiet. And then the truth struck—sharp as cold water. The skin was gone. I lurched to my feet. The beach tilted under me. I ran before I knew I was running, wind slicing at my face, salt thick on my tongue. Each step made the horizon blur; each breath felt like breathing through fabric. By the time I reached the house, the storm had gathered its voice. The door slammed open against the wall. My parents were at the kitchen table, frozen, their bodies tense in a way I had never seen before. And there it was, spread neatly between them: my sealskin, folded like laundry, gleaming faintly under the light. “Juniper brought this to us,” my father said, his hand resting on it as if to keep it from moving. “She said you left it behind.”

The room tilted again, the air thick enough to choke on. I stared—not at them, but at the skin. My sealskin. Alive and wrong and exposed. “Juniper?” I managed to croak out, my voice smaller than I intended. “She was worried,” my mother said. Her eyes were sharp, but her voice trembled beneath the calm. “She said you were changing. We asked what she meant. She told us everything.” Something inside me cracked open. “She stole it,” I spat out. The words came out raw. “She knew. She knew what it was.” “She didn’t steal it,” my father said too quickly, the words snapping like dry twigs. “She was trying to help.” Help. The word hung between us, brittle and absurd. My hands shook. I wanted to snatch the skin back, to scream, to vanish into the salt that had made me. But the house began to suffocate my lungs; the ceiling seemed to lower while the walls narrowed in. I couldn’t stay any longer. *** The wind that night rose like something alive, tearing through the dunes and carrying the scent of rain and lightning. I didn’t stop to think. I only knew I had to move. I clutched the skin to my chest and ran. The storm was already breaking, rain slicing sideways, sand clawing at my legs until tiny crescents of blood bloomed across them. Behind me, the town blurred into a smear of yellow light, then vanished altogether. Ahead, the sea waited, still a cradle with teeth—vast and trembling under the storm’s weight. It wasn’t a welcome, like the first time had been. This was simply the truth. By the time I reached the rocks, the waves were climbing high enough to swallow the sky. The skin was slick and heavy in my arms, pulsing faintly, as if it still remembered how to breathe. For a moment, I faltered. I thought of Juniper’s eyes—how she always seemed to be memorizing me. My mother’s low humming while she folded laundry, my father fiddling with the radio until the static sounded almost like music. All the small, human things that had almost made me stay. But the ache beneath my ribs was louder. When I pressed the skin to my chest, it shuddered awake—cold, alive, and sure of itself in a way I no longer was. The air around me warped, while my breath caught and splintered. The world tilted inward: sound collapsing into pulse, light into motion. My limbs convulsed, bones reshaping with remembered pain. Soon enough, salt flooded my mouth, my lungs, then everything. The sea surged forward, unrelenting but tender, as if guiding me home. Behind me, through the roar and rain, came a voice, breaking into a gull-cry. “Mira!”

I turned my face toward the wind, and the tide rose to meet me, arms open like a mother who never forgot. I dove, the cold slicing me into something clean. The storm folded shut above me, and I did not surface. Somewhere above, they kept calling me a name I had already begun to shed. Below, the dark waited, patient and endless—and for the first time, I no longer felt the need to answer.

Xinyao Sarah Huang

Visual Arts Sage Hill School Newport Coast, CA

Laoye, 2025 Colored pencils, acetone paper, acrylic paint and illustration board

Anuj Jain

Poetry Mountain View High School Mountain View, CA

Rupture The day India split in two, my grandmother swallowed her gold earrings. This is not metaphor. The jewelry passed through her body three days later, washed, worn for forty more years. Some stories resist poetry. Trains filled with bodies. Borders drawn in blood and speed. The math of hatred: subtraction, division, calculus of bloodlines. I don’t know which village my grandfather fled, which god he kept, which language he silenced crossing over. Asked too late. Now I excavate what migration buried: shame, severance, a desperate desire to forget what could not be survived. People ask why we can’t let go. They have the luxury of grief with clean borders: graves with names, neighbors without machetes. Some women swallowed jewelry before they were slaughtered. Bodies identified later by rings and bangles passed through their own blood. This, too, resists metaphor. Sometimes there is no meaning. Only metal. Only evidence. My grandmother wore those earrings as testimony, not adornment. Not heirloom. Not symbol. Just what survived.

Willa Jaymes

Visual Arts Cleveland High School Reseda, CA

Goodmorning, 2024 Wood, ceramic, dried grapefruit and tea bags

Harper Johnson

Visual Arts Glenelg Country School Ellicott City, MD

The Tangled Webs We Weave, 2024 Oil paint on canvas

Kameirah Johnson

Visual Arts Lakeside School Seattle, WA

Infantilize, 2025 Acrylic painting on wood

Anise Kim

Photography Homeschool Koutiala, Mali

Angel’s Veil, 2024 Digital photograph

Collin Kim Donation Day Fabric lies in soft mountains for donation across the basketball court, and I remember how wool holds the shape of shoulders long after the shoulders have gone. A woman sorts through children’s clothes with an archivist’s patience, folding each relinquished shirt into careful squares. If you look at displacement long enough, it begins to resemble something else—families move through these piles, careful like figures in choreography. A father holds parkas in summer, feeling for weight that might protect the unprotectable. I dreamed last night I was the keeper of a house of infinite doors, each one opening into a room like a different season of someone else’s life. In the dream my pockets filled with keys that fit nothing and ash fell like snow through every threshold until I woke to sirens counting down the hours. The scoreboard still glows from Friday’s game, whenever it was, twenty-one to fourteen, as if numbers could hold time in place. Here, a girl tries a pair of crocs that belonged to another girl who believed in the luxury of tomorrow, and I want to tell her about the morning my house forgot to burn, how luck sounds like sprinklers keeping time against the ash-thick air drunk with smoke. When I leave, the doors exhale me back into the parking lot, ash kicking up at my feet, leaving its signature quietly on the windshields. As I drive, I carry their faces in mine, borrowed like light.

Poetry Harvard-Westlake Upper School Studio City, CA

Kayla Gyujin Kim

Design Seoul International School Seongnam-si, South Korea

8) Wings of Renewal _ model, 2025 PVC foam board (Foamex), preserved flower, gesso, gelstone

Ingrid Uma Knap

Photography Palisades Charter High School Los Angeles, CA

Addict Part 3, 2025 Digital photograph

Everette Lang

Play or Script Cleveland High School Reseda, CA

Nepenthe EXT. EMPTY SIDESTREET - JACKSONVILLE, OREGON - DAY Faint Audio: “For Sure” by American Football SFX: Footsteps crunching on gravel A pair of dusty white converse shuffle across a deteriorating blacktop road in Jacksonville, Oregon. The shoes are worn by SUMMER FARREN (15, charismatic, likable, and outwardly confident, but at this moment, something is weighing on her). Her eyebrows are knit against the sun as she walks in the early summer heat. EXT. FRONT PORCH- FARREN RESIDENCE- LATER Muffled music from Summer’s Ipod cuts as she pauses at her front porch and takes her wired earbuds out. She takes an extended beat, exhales, and prepares a soft smile before opening the door and stepping inside. INT. FARREN RESIDENCE- CONTINUOUS

Hi Mom!

SUMMER (overly cheerful)

Summer drops her bag on the floor and tosses her keys on the kitchen table. No response.

Mom?

SUMMER (CONT’D) (concerned)

Hey, sweetie!

O.S.

The strained voice belongs to Summer’s mother, ANNIE (late 40s, graying roots, looks older than she is). Her kind eyes are surrounded by worry lines- she’s been through a lot. ANNIE How was your last day? SUMMER Really good! Got all my yearbook signatures and stuff.

Summer reaches into her backpack and pulls out a yearbook. SUMMER (CONT’D) (handing it to her) Look at what Lucy wrote on the first page. Annie begins to slowly flip through it. She stops on a page and a shadow crosses her face. SUMMER (CONT’D) Oh yeah, there’s a picture of Dad in there. Annie nods silently. SUMMER (CONT’D) It was some spirit week thing. Shot above Annie’s shoulder of said picture- Summer’s Dad, in a white spirit day t-shirt and a green wig, sticks his tongue out at the camera while posing with students. SUMMER (CONT’D) (lightly) I was gonna go see him . . . If that’s okay with you. ANNIE (snapping out of it) Yeah, honey. That’s. . . of course that’s okay. Go. Summer starts to the door, then hesitates. SUMMER I’ll be back in time for Desperate Housewives. (beat) Love you!

Be safe!

ANNIE (as the door shuts)

The door closes behind Summer. Back at the doorstep, she pauses again and exhales before continuing. EXT. LARGE FIELD- DAY Extreme close up on Summer’s face. SUMMER Hi, Dad. Cut to a stone slab in the ground at her feet which reads: IN LOVING MEMORY OF WADE FARREN. 1960-2005. HUSBAND, FATHER, SON, AND TEACHER. CUT BACK TO

Summer, slouching on a patchy quilt of green and burnt brown grasses. She reaches behind her, picks two weed-like flowers out of the ground, and lays them beside the headstone. Beat. She readjusts the flowers to look ‘prettier’, then sits back. SUMMER Today was really weird. Another beat, longer this time. SUMMER (CONT’D) I saw the janitors cleaning your room out. …I don’t know what I expected. It’s not like they could leave it forever. She stares down at the ground. Trying to keep things from getting too dark. SUMMER (CONT’D) I won’t be able to come here for a while. I’m going to this camp thing. . . for kids with dead dads. I mean, not just dead dads. Like, also, other dead. . . people. . . you get it. So. . . Sorry I didn’t bring more flowers. Summer starts absentmindedly twirling the grass with her fingers. SUMMER (CONT’D) But I’ll bring more when I’m back. She lowers her body down until she’s laying on the grass beside the grave. For the first time, we see a glimmer of her true emotions as her eyes well up. BIRD’S EYE SHOT: SUMMER LAYING ON THE GRASS BESIDE THE GRAVE. TITLE CARD: NEPENTHE MOM??

SUMMER (V.O.)

INT- FARREN RESIDENCE - SUMMER’S ROOM - NEXT DAY Summer’s floor is a sea of clothes and shoes, surrounding an open duffle bag. SUMMER (loudly) Do you know where my plaid pajama pants are?

Summer, frantically rifling through her drawers, suddenly comes to a complete stop. Angle on - Summer grabbing a T-Shirt from the drawer The t-shirt reads: Hepburn High Spirit Day ‘05. GO HAWKS! There’s a signature on a blank white box: ‘Mr. Farren’. Summer smiles, wistful. ANNIE (O.S.) What did you say, Sunny? Summer quickly drops the shirt into the drawer and slams it shut. SUMMER Do you know where my plaid pajama pants are? Annie looks at the chaos on the floor. ANNIE What, you can’t find them? SUMMER Don’t look at it! It’s gonna be fine. Everything’s gonna be beautiful before I leave. ANNIE (affectionately) They’re in the dryer. I’ll grab them. Thank you!

SUMMER

Annie turns and exits. Summer opens the drawer, reaches for the shirt, and tucks it into her bag. EXT. PORCH- FARREN RESIDENCE- SUNSET Summer and her mother sit on an old, tattered porch swing, eating popsicles. Aside from the chirping sounds of the birds and crickets, it’s quiet. SUMMER How are you feeling? ANNIE What do you mean? SUMMER Well, I’m going away for two months. Are you, like, nervous?

ANNIE (laughing, defensive) What do you mean, am I nervous? I’m not- I’m the adult here! I’m fine. (beat) Are you fine? Summer glances down at her feet. SUMMER Yeah, I’m fine. I’m excited, I guess. Annie raises her eyebrows, happily surprised by this answer. SUMMER (CONT’D) (looking off) I mean, I wish Dad was here. Then I wouldn’t even know about any of this. Annie’s eyes sadden a little. SUMMER (CONT’D) (with forced brightness) But he would want me to make the best of things. Right? Touched, Annie nods. SUMMER (CONT’D) So, yeah. I’m excited. SUMMER (CONT’D) About as excited as anyone going to grief camp can be. She laughs a little. Annie laughs too, and opens her arm to her daughter. Summer scoots closer and rests her head on her mother’s shoulder. EXT. SOUTH MEDFORD HIGH SCHOOL PARKING LOT - MORNING A mustard yellow school bus rumbles into the parking lot and stops in front of Summer and Annie. No one else is there. Summer is the only person being picked up. ANNIE Don’t do anything stupid. Really?

SUMMER

ANNIE (beat) Don’t be reckless.

Really?!

SUMMER (incredulous)

SUMMER (CONT’D) Are you sure you’re not going to be lonely? ANNIE Go. Have fun. (THEN, BRIGHTLY) Send me letters! SUMMER I’ll write every day. ANNIE Not every day, Summer. That’s overkill. SUMMER Every other day. Every two days? ANNIE Alright. See you in a couple months. Annie pulls Summer into a hug and then forcefully pushes her towards the bus. ANNIE (CONT’D) Now get up there. SUMMER (re: the push) You’re stronger than you look! Summer and Annie share a moment, then she heads up the steps. Annie bravely watches, then turns away, pulling out a crumpled tissue and wiping her eyes. INT. SCHOOL BUS - MOMENTS LATER Summer pauses at the front of the bus as the doors close behind her. She scans the seats, which are mostly empty, apart from a boy sitting alone in the front row. She taps him on the shoulder. SUMMER Hi! Is anyone sitting here, or is it alright if I sit? The boy turns around and looks up with a start. This is VINCENT, (16, soft-spoken, observant, and good-looking, but insecure). His expression is one of fear and discomfort.

No!

VINCENT (clearing his throat)

Summer blinks. VINCENT (CONT’D) I mean yes. No as in no, no one’s sitting here. It’s open. Vincent sighs defeatedly. Summer remains standing, unsure of what’s just happened. VINCENT (CONT’D) So, yeah, you can sit. I mean, if you want to. Summer, slides in next to Vincent, and instantly finds something about him to compliment. SUMMER (warmly) I like your bracelet. Vincent raises his eyebrows and tries to smile, but says nothing. His cheeks are rosy with embarrassment. He goes to turn back to the window, but Summer is persistent. I’m Summer.

SUMMER (CONT’D) VINCENT

Vincent.

Summer smiles warmly at him. Vincent’s expression softens a little. INT- SCHOOL BUS- LATER Far more people are on the bus now, and Summer and Vincent are getting along famously as the bus pulls into the camp parking lot. SUMMER (laughing) So what do you like?

What?

VINCENT (also laughing, but less enthusiastically)

SUMMER You don’t like rock, you don’t like country, you don’t like hip hop… what do you like? VINCENT (on the spot) I don’t know! Whatever my brothers play.

EXT- PARKING LOT- CAMP COURAGE- MOMENTS LATER The bus rumbles to a stop next to another bus in a parking lot, surrounded by dozens of Douglas Firs. INT- BUS- CONTINUOUS Kids peer out the window to get a glimpse of their destination. SUMMER Alright. My goal for you- I want you to be able to tell me what music you like to listen to by the end of next week. Not your brothers, not your parents. You. She digs into her pocket and hands him her Ipod. SUMMER (CONT’D) (plainly) Take this. It’ll help you figure things out. She grabs her bags and steps out of the bus, leaving Vincent shellshocked in her wake. Are you serious?

VINCENT

EXT- CAMPGROUNDS- DAY Kids exit the buses in droves- some excited, some terrified, all confused. SFX: An obnoxious airhorn. All the kids turn towards the sound. A counselor stands on a tree stump, holding the airhorn. COUNSELOR What up?! Welcome to Camp Courage!! Follow the dirt path and meet Josie at the front doors of Coyote Hall. 30 yards away, a second counselor (JOSIE) stands, waving her arms over-enthusiastically. Vincent hurries down the steps of the bus, iPod in hand. The airhorn sounds again and he jumps, shrieking. Recovering, he spots Summer and falls into place beside her as the group migrates. VINCENT Wait, are you sure..? (Summer nods) Whoa. Thanks. …How do you use this thing?

SUMMER It’s easy. As long as your hearing’s still intact. Here. You just take this… Her voice slowly gets quieter as the group walks towards the hall, away from camera. Just behind Vincent and Summer, a GIRL WITH DARK HAIR and equally dark energy comes into focus for a moment. She looks extremely unhappy to be here. INT- COYOTE HALL- CAMP COURAGE- MINUTES LATER The campers are led into a large auditorium-like room with honeycolored wooden panels and a domed roof. A few COUNSELORS mill around a small stage with a shabby looking podium. Kids file into rows of foldable chairs in the audience. Summer and Vincent, sticking together, stand off towards the wall. Confidence radiates off of Summer; Vincent, on the other hand, seems to shrink into himself. SUMMER

C’mon.

INT- COYOTE HALL- MOMENTS LATER Summer and Vincent sit in the audience. There is one open seat beside Summer. The slim, dark haired girl (from the previous scene) slips into the empty seat and crosses her arms. Her hands are decorated with various silver rings. This is MONTANA EVANS (16, Unenthused, over it, and definitely cooler than you) Summer is immediately intrigued.

Hi.

SUMMER (CONT’D) (to Montana)

Montana’s fleeting glance is deathly judgmental. Cool rings. Yeah.

SUMMER (CONT’D) MONTANA

SUMMER What’s your name? Montana has zero patience for her.

MONTANA (not looking at her) Montana. SUMMER That’s a pretty name. Never heard that before. No response.

SUMMER (CONT’D) I’m Summer, by the way. . .

She leans back so Vincent is visible SUMMER (CONT’D) . . . and this is Vincent.

Mhm.

MONTANA (dismissively)

Summer looks at Vincent and mouths “WTF?” Vincent shrugs in response. Feedback pierces everyone’s ears as a lead counselor wrestles with the microphone. This is RACHAEL, (25) authoritative, but warm and welcoming. Her hair, long and braided, has colored streaks of blood red through it. RACHAEL Good afternoon, everyone! Shot of the crowd. Kids of all ages. Six year olds fidgeting restlessly, tweens staring blankly at the podium, older teens completely disassociated. Nobody but Summer shows enthusiasm. RACHAEL (CONT’D) Welcome to Camp Courage. We are so happy to have you all here with us this summer… She notes on the crowd’s somber energy. RACHAEL (CONT’D) (scanning the crowd) I can tell you guys are super pumped…! As Rachael drones on (below), the camera focuses on Summer and Montana. RACHAEL (O.C) (CONT’D) Okay. I’ll make this short and sweet. My name is Rachael, and I’ve been a part of the Camp Courage Community since I was eleven years old. So- whether you believe me or not, I know how you’re all feeling right now. . .

Montana takes a small lollipop out of her pocket and begins unwrapping it. The paper crinkles loudly. Summer looks at Vincent again- can you believe this? Montana throws the wrapper on the floor. Summer, appalled, picks the wrapper up. SUMMER (handing it to her) You dropped something. Montana stares her down, says nothing, and begins ripping the lollipop wrapper in half. Into four pieces. Eight. Sixteen. Then, she starts slowly dropping the shreds on the floor- one by one. SUMMER (CONT’D) Aren’t you a ray of sunshine? Disturbed, Summer exhales and turns her attention back to the stage. EXT- CAMPGROUNDS- CAMP COURAGE- AN HOUR LATER Orientation has ended. Campers are now lugging their baggage to their respective quarters. There’s slight chatter- kids are making friends, talking, almost laughing. If you don’t know any better, you might think it looks like a regular camp. Vincent and Summer stand facing each other, comparing each other’s MANILA FOLDERS. Cabin. . . 14.

SUMMER

She pulls out a key from the envelope. VINCENT 14?? That’s nowhere near me! SUMMER That’s okay. Cabins are just for sleeping anyway. VINCENT What if my roommate thinks I’m weird? And then we have to spend all summer together? SUMMER (cutting him off) You’ll be fine! VINCENT I can feel my throat closing up-

SUMMER No it’s not. Meet here before dinner? VINCENT (nervously) Yeah. Yep. If I’m alive by then. If my throat doesn’t seal up completely and cause me to-

Bye!

SUMMER (starting away)

Vincent is left standing alone awkwardly, rubbing his neck. EXT- CABIN 14 - MOMENTS LATER Summer approaches a large rustic bungalow with five doors, all sharing the same porch. Each cabin fits ten people, two per room. Summer stands at her door and exhales. Deep down, she’s emotional about being here. With forced cheerfulness, she unlocks it, and steps inside. She shuts the door and surveys the area. A bunk bed, two desks, and two small dressers, one of which already has clothes spilling out of it. The bathroom door opens. A pair of filthy-beyond-belief Converse step out of the bathroom. The laces are untied. The black fabric is tattered. Doodles all over the shoes. Summer stops dead in her tracks. So does the girl. It’s Montana. She pauses, takes one look at Summer, and then heads out the door without saying a word.

Nice.

SUMMER (to herself, dejected)

END OF EXCERPT FROM NEPENTHE

Marilyn Elisabeth Leal

Photography High School of Fashion Industries New York, NY

Haría cualquier cosa por mi hijo, 2025 Documentary mixed media

Giljoon Lee Monsoon Season, Korea Sometimes, I mistake water for oil. Food carts and love motels fill the street. My uncle is dead. I did not cry. I sit on the sidewalk edge, resting. Play with my hair, make insects out of it. My cousin is a high school dropout. Another uncle, an alive one, says I am the family’s potential. Long live Korea. My stomach is cold. Can unaccented English buy hotteok? Under an umbrella, a young couple. Matching outfits, only their silhouettes differentiating. A drunk man argues with his wife on the phone. Sound travels better in rain. After a scream, he hangs up, hails a taxi. Tonight I want to fuck a man. Yes, the potential.

Poetry Monta Vista High School Cupertino, CA

Madeline Lee

Design The Spence School New York, NY

ManiFold, 2025 Paper, nylon fabric, Adobe InDesign

Jane Liou

Visual Arts Mountain View High School Mountain View, CA

Home is an Extension of the Human, 2025 Cardstock, cardboard, acrylic, cloth, felt, paper, wire, beads, wood glue, balsa wood, vellum and LED

Ken Longmore

Visual Arts George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology Baltimore, MD

Wash It Away, 2025 Oil on canvas

Anika Mangla

Spoken Word Irvington High School Fremont, CA

Tiger Queen I was named after Sheravali Matha. Goddess of bravery, rider of the tiger. Strength, courage, demon slayer. When I learned, I was enamored. Diwali, gleaming flames of diyas, Holi, hands stained with color. Worshipping a goddess who tamed a monster beneath her feet. She rode the tiger, the mighty and strong. India’s national animal. Stripes rippling through jungle leaves and painted through generations of stories. My culture seemed perfect. But then I started hearing rumbles of tigers in our homes. I’ve spent months with my grandfather, who bought me churiyas and whatever I pleased, pressed rupees into my palms like secrets. When the same hand clawed at my Nani, tore at her sarees. When Mumma told me she didn’t stop. Didn’t cry? The tiger. It’s stoic. It watches. It prowls through dinner thalis, and waits at wedding altars. In the old stories, a tiger once wanted a Brahmin wife. So he wore human skin, concealed his claws. And the girl— she saw the boy, not the beast. And when she followed her husband to the

water’s edge, he said: “Be quiet or I shall show you my true self!” Stripes came back, claws flickered, the pond reflected what she couldn’t originally see. Isn’t that how it always happens? The tiger plays the husband, until it doesn’t. My mother’s childhood. Our mother country. But it’s not the country, rather, the culture. Because freshman year I started seeing the signs here. My best friend told me: “Uppa hit me in the shower, I blacked out” “No, no, I’m okay Anika. This is normal” Normal? Like Mumma said. Like Nani lived. Like my culture embraces. Because in our stories, Naari Dharm teaches Sita silence. It’s not devotion if it isn’t self-destruction. Be the good wife. Even if it means walking through fire, even if it means never walking out— And the tiger? It doesn’t always snarl. Sometimes it purrs. Sometimes it buys you gold churiyas— disguised shackles that burn your wrists.

She learned that the hard way. Isha did too. The tiger is rooted deep in my culture. Its roars drown the silent oppression my sisters bathe in. We pray to our goddess, they prey on our skin. But still, we teach our girls to bend— back-breaking, bone-snapping, burning pains wielded into a mold of a churiya that binds our wrist with chains.

I was named after Sheravali Matha. So my daughter— she won’t worship this silence. She won’t carry this legacy in her blood. She will be claw, fang, wildfire. She’ll turn the tiger’s stripes into scars. Because the tiger keeps winning as we keep feeding it silence. And I— I was named to slay it.

We tell them: Be patient. Be quiet. Be still. But when the tiger doesn’t wait for the altar, and drags you onto the street— they stand still. A 16-year-old, gang-raped on a Delhi bus. People passed by and watched. Watched as if this wasn’t someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, a girl just on her way home. And the tigers? Not encaged, they continue stalking in the jungle. But she? She’s forced to camouflage. Even in death, the flames of her fear drum with the roar of the tiger. Because here, shame stains the burned woman— but their kills are awards, painted stripes. The tiger, it doesn’t need to hunt, it knows we just stand still. But not anymore

Translations Sheravali Matha — Goddess Diwali — Festival of Lights Diyas — Small oil lamps Holi — Festival of Colors Churiyas / Churiya — Bangles Rupees — Indian currency Nani — Grandmother Sarees — Indian garments worn by women Mumma — Mom / Mother Thalis — Large metal plates used to serve Indian meals Brahmin — Member of the priestly caste in Hindu society Uppa — Father / Dad Naari Dharm — The duty of a woman Sita — Wife of Lord Rama in Hindu mythology

Edie Murawski

Visual Arts Booker T. Washington High School for the Performing and Visual Arts Dallas, TX

Cantaloupe, 2025 Acrylic paint on matboard

Julianne Ounsombath

Photography Carroll High School Fort Wayne, IN

Crisis Below the Surface, 2024 Digital photograph

Hayden Park

Fiction Pacific Academy Irvine Irvine, CA

The Unplayed Second Part Chapter 1: The Horse The sound was mud. Thick, percussive mud under his fingers and the notes ran together in the small room. Leo Fallon sweated in the stale air, and the felt hammers of the Steinway upright struck the strings with a dull thud, not the clean crackle the music demanded. The score was propped open before him, the pages worn soft at the corners. Liszt. Transcendental Étude No. 4. Mazeppa, tied to the horse. Leo felt like the horse. Or maybe he was Mazeppa and the piano was the horse, a wild black thing trying to throw him. He did not know which was worse. His left hand made the frantic gallop in the bass and his right hand was supposed to sing the melody over it, a desperate, noble cry. But it was not singing. It was choking. He lifted his hands from the keys and the sweat from his palms left dark prints on the ivory. His forearms ached with a deep, electric burn. Four hours. He had been in this white-walled box for four hours and the only thing he had perfected was the sound of his own failure. He leaned forward and his forehead rested against the cool wood above the keys. The polished ebony reflected a distorted version of his face, the eyes dark, the mouth a grim line. He pushed back from the piano bench, the legs scraping against the floor. The room was no bigger than a closet, with a single padded door and acoustic panels on the walls that seemed to soak up not just the sound, but the air itself. It was one of forty such rooms on the fifth floor of the Juilliard building, a honeycomb of solitary confinement where everyone volunteered for their own sentence. He walked the two steps to the door and leaned against it, feeling the faint, alien vibrations from other rooms. Someone was playing Chopin, a clean and delicate nocturne. Someone else was butchering Scarlatti. A cellist was sawing away at a Bach suite, the low notes a vibration in Leo’s teeth. It was a factory of noise, each person in their own cell, trying to hammer themselves into something better. He opened the door. The sound of the hallway hit him like a wave, a dozen different pieces clashing. Ugly ambition, turned up loud. Down the long, stark corridor, another door opened, and Kai Sterling stepped out.

Kai never wasted a motion. Not when he walked, not when he played. He held a leather-bound score, pulling the door shut behind him without a sound. Simple gray sweater, dark jeans. His black hair was cut short and he had the kind of calm, still face that seemed impossible in this building. He saw Leo and gave a small nod. “Mazeppa,” he said. It was not a question. Leo leaned against the doorway. “He’s a bastard.” Kai stopped in front of him and considered him with those pale, clear gray eyes of his. He glanced into Leo’s room, at the upright piano, at the open score. He looked back at Leo’s face, at the sweat on his hairline. “Sounded like the horse was winning,” Kai said. The words landed without malice. It was a simple statement of fact, a diagnosis. It was the truth and that is what made it twist in Leo’s gut. He could have taken an insult from anyone else. But Kai only dealt in truths. “It was,” Leo said. He wiped his palms on his jeans. “You’re rushing the triplets in the B section,” Kai said. “Trying to force the power. It’s in the wrist, not the shoulder. Sokolova will kill you if you play it like that in the audition.” “Sokolova wants to kill everyone.” Kai gave a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Only the ones who deserve it.” He shifted the score in his hand. It was Bach. Of course it was Bach. “You coming home?” “In a bit.” “Don’t stay too late,” Kai said. “You’ll hurt yourself.” He meant the hands, the delicate machinery of muscle and bone, the only thing of value they owned. Kai walked away down the hall, his steps even and quiet on the tiled floor, a single clean note in the building’s ugly chord. Leo watched him go, then stepped back into his room and closed the door, cutting the world out again. He sat at the bench. He didn’t play. He just looked at his hands, turning them over. They were good hands, strong, with a wide span. But they were his. They were fallible. He thought of Kai’s hands. He’d seen them up close, playing chess in their apartment— slender and elegant, fingers like a surgeon’s tools, each

one a separate, intelligent creature. They didn’t seem to be part of Kai’s body. They seemed to belong to the music itself. Leo closed the fallboard over the keys. The wood made a soft, final click. The walk home was ten blocks up Broadway, past the theaters and the bright lights of Lincoln Center, and then into the quieter, darker streets of the Upper West Side. The October air was sharp with the smell of roasted nuts and car exhaust. Leo jammed his hands in his pockets. Kai walked beside him, gaze fixed straight ahead. They didn’t talk. They had used up all their words in the practice rooms. The walk was a silent truce between their two separate wars. Their building on 107th was a five-story pre-war walk-up with a faded green awning. The lobby smelled of dust and old cooking oil. Four flights up, their footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell. Apartment 4B. Kai unlocked the three locks—the deadbolt, the knob lock, the useless chain—and pushed the door open. The place was furnished with things found on the street or bought for ten dollars. A lumpy couch covered in a Mexican blanket. A coffee table made from a slab of wood on cinder blocks. On the wall, a single poster: a black and white photo of Glenn Gould hunched over a piano. The room was dominated by an old Baldwin studio upright shoved against the far wall, its wood scarred and coffee-stained. A loaner, a terrible instrument, but it was theirs. Leo dropped his backpack and went to the narrow galley kitchen. He opened the refrigerator: a carton of milk, a jar of pickles, three beers. He took one and twisted the cap off on the edge of the counter. “You want one?” he called out. “Tea, please,” Kai’s voice came from the living room. Leo filled a kettle and put it on the stove, the gas burner catching with a soft whoosh. He leaned against the counter and drank his beer, the cold liquid a welcome shock. He could hear Kai in the other room, the rustle of pages on the coffee table. He finished his beer and went back into the living room. Kai was at the Baldwin now, back straight, resting his fingers on the keys as if taking their temperature. The kettle began to whistle, a high, piercing scream. Kai ignored it. Then he played. It was Bach. A four-part fugue, complex and crystalline. He played it quietly, his hands moving with an unnerving precision. Each note was a perfect, discrete point of light, chasing the others in an intricate, mathematical dance. The sound filled the small, grimy room and for a moment, it changed the space. It gave it order. It gave it grace. The music was so clean it felt like an accusation.

Leo stood and listened, watching the back of Kai’s head, the focused line of his shoulders. Kai did not move his body when he played. All the energy was in his fingers, a controlled, directed current. He was not fighting the music. He was revealing it. He was a translator, showing what had been there all along. The kettle shrieked. Kai finished the phrase, held the last chord until the sound decayed into the walls, and then lifted his hands. The silence that followed was heavy. “The water’s boiling,” Leo said. Kai stood from the bench. “I know.” He walked past Leo into the kitchen. Leo looked at the ugly piano. It was just a piece of furniture again. They ate on the floor, backs against the lumpy couch, takeout boxes of pad thai balanced on their knees. A basketball game played on the television, sound off. “Did you hear how many are auditioning for her studio this year?” Kai asked, pushing noodles around with a plastic fork. There was only one her. Madame Anya Sokolova. Leo knew. Well. He said, “No. How many?” “Sixty-two,” said Kai. “For maybe six spots. Seven, if she’s in a good mood.” Leo felt a familiar tightening in his stomach. The odds were absurd. A cattle call where the cattle were all thoroughbreds. Getting into Juilliard’s college division was one thing. Being accepted into the studio of Anya Sokolova was another. The difference between being a soldier and being chosen for the palace guard. “It’s a different game this year,” Leo said. “It’s not just about passing. It’s about being chosen.” “It was always about being chosen,” Kai said. It was another one of his truths, offered without ornament. “And you think you’ll be chosen?” Kai finally looked at him. His gray eyes were unreadable. “I’m playing Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit for the audition.” “Which movement?” But he already knew the answer. “All three.” Leo fell silent. Gaspard de la nuit. The pinnacle of technical terror. Scarbo, the final movement, was a nightmare of rapid repetitions and crossed hands that had broken better pianists than Leo. To play it from memory for a college audition was more than a claim. It was a declaration of war. Leo was still wrestling with a single Liszt étude. The pad thai in his mouth tasted like paper. “Good for you,” Leo said. They finished their meal in silence.

Later, they retreated to their separate rooms. The apartment was divided by a thin wall. Leo’s room was barely big enough for his mattress on the floor and a milk crate overflowing with scores. Kai’s room was the same size, but Leo knew it was different. He knew it would be neat, the scores stacked, the bed made. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster that looked like a river delta. He could feel the vibration of the subway as it rumbled deep beneath the building. He was tired but his mind wouldn’t shut down, replaying the B section of the Mazeppa, the blurred triplets, the heavy sound of his own hands. Sokolova will kill you if you play it like that. The piano does not reward effort, Mr. Fallon. It only rewards control. He closed his eyes. The building was quiet now. The sounds of the city were a distant, muted roar. He could hear the old building groaning, the pipes hissing. He waited. Then he heard it. Through the wall, from Kai’s room, a new sound began. A soft, precise, relentless click. The quietest, most violent sound in the world, he thought, was Kai’s metronome. Set to a slow, meditative andante. He wasn’t at the keyboard. He would be at his desk, score open, fingers tapping the rhythm on the wooden surface. Dissecting the music, analyzing its bones. Learning it away from the instrument, imprinting it directly onto his mind. Leo rolled onto his side and pressed his face into his pillow, but he couldn’t block it out. It was the sound of perfection. It was the sound of a clock. Each click was a second of his own life he was wasting. Each click was Kai getting further ahead. It was the sound of the horse, galloping steadily away from him in the dark. He lay there for a long time, listening. The clicking did not stop. Chapter 2: The Masterclass The air in the Paul Recital Hall was old and expensive. It held the weight of past performances, the clean smell of lemon oil on dark wood, and underneath it all, the faint, sharp scent of fear. Two hundred seats of deep red velvet curved up from the stage, mostly empty. Only twenty of them were taken, scattered through the rows, a loose congregation of the piano department’s pre-college students. They did not speak. They sat apart from each other like islands of nervous energy, their scores held tight in their laps. They were here to learn, but they were also here to watch each other, to gauge the competition. The college division auditions were two months away, and this masterclass

with Madame Sokolova was a dress rehearsal for the slaughter. It was a chance for her to see the new crop of talent. It was a chance for them to be seen. On the stage were two Steinway concert grands, their black lids propped open like the wings of two enormous, sleeping birds. They faced each other, a silent dialogue of potential. Madame Anya Sokolova sat at a small table between them, a single gooseneck lamp illuminating the stack of scores in front of her. She was a small woman, made smaller by the vastness of the stage. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, gray bun, and she wore a simple black dress that seemed to absorb the light. She made a small note in a margin with a silver pen, the motion precise and economical. She did not look at the students. She did not need to. Her presence was a pressure that settled over the entire room. Leo sat in the tenth row, next to Kai. They left a single empty seat between them, a strip of neutral territory. Leo’s hands were cold. He worked them together in his lap, trying to bring the life back into the knuckles. His heart hammered a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. He had slept badly, the sound of Kai’s metronome a phantom tick in his dreams. “First,” Sokolova said, her voice quiet but carrying a strange amplification in the hall’s perfect acoustics. She did not raise her head from her papers. “Miss Albright. From Boston.” A girl with bright red hair stood up from the third row. She wore a green dress and her face was pale, her freckles stark against her skin. She walked to the stage, her steps hesitant on the dark wood. She bowed awkwardly towards Sokolova’s table, then to the empty hall. Sokolova did not acknowledge it. Miss Albright sat at the piano on the right. She took a moment, adjusting the bench, wiping her palms on her dress. She was playing the Chopin Ballade No. 1 in G minor. A warhorse. A piece everyone knew and everyone had an opinion on. It was a foolish choice for a masterclass. It was like offering a journeyman’s carving to a master sculptor. She began. The opening was tentative, the notes uneven. She was nervous and the music showed it. The lyrical sections were rushed, and the thundering coda, which should have been a storm of righteous fury, was a frantic scramble for the notes. She hit the final chords with a clumsy, desperate force. The sound died, and the silence that rushed in to take its place was brutal. The girl from Boston sat with her hands in her lap, her head bowed. She did not look at Sokolova. A full minute passed. Sokolova slowly closed the Chopin score on her desk. She folded her hands.

“Thank you, Miss Albright,” she said. The politeness was more terrifying than any criticism. “You have very strong fingers.” The girl looked up, a flicker of hope in her eyes. “It is a shame you do not trust them,” Sokolova continued, her voice flat. “You play this piece like a tourist taking a photograph of a famous painting. You show us that you were there. You do not show us the painting. The G minor Ballade is not a test of your velocity. It is a story of a man searching for a room in a burning house. Your performance told us only that you have practiced your scales. That is not enough.” The girl’s face crumbled. She stared at Sokolova, her mouth slightly open. “Go home,” Sokolova said, not unkindly. “Play Bach. For six months. Nothing but Bach. Learn what a single, honest note sounds like. Then, maybe, you can try to tell a story. Thank you for your time.” Miss Albright stood up from the bench. She looked like she might be sick. She walked off the stage, down the steps, and out a side door of the recital hall without looking back. The door closed behind her with a soft whoosh. Twenty students had just watched a public execution. Sokolova made another note with her silver pen. She did not look up. “Mr. Sterling,” she said. Kai stood. He moved with the same fluid economy he always had. He walked onto the stage, his black dress shoes making no sound. He bowed once, a clean, sharp dip of his head towards Sokolova. He did not look at the audience. He sat at the piano Miss Albright had just vacated, the wood of the bench still warm. He did not adjust it. He did not fidget. He placed his hands on the keys and waited for the hall to become absolutely still. Leo leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He watched Kai’s back, the straight line of his spine. “Ravel,” Kai said. His voice was clear and steady. “From Gaspard de la nuit. The first movement. Ondine.” He began. The first notes fell into the hall like drops of water in a deep cavern. A shimmering curtain of sound, impossibly fast, impossibly light. It was the legend of the water nymph, the seductress who lures mortals to their death in her lake. Kai’s right hand created the shifting, liquid surface of the water, a cascade of thirty-second notes played with a supernatural evenness. His left hand sang the melody, a song of longing and danger. It was perfect. It was more than perfect. It was an illusion. The piano, a percussive instrument of wood and steel and felt, ceased to exist. In its place was water, light, and a chilling, inhuman beauty. Leo felt a cold knot form in his stomach. This was not the

playing of a student. This was the work of a mature artist. Kai had made a leap. He had crossed some invisible line since the last time Leo had heard him play in a formal setting. The piece surged, the nymph’s pleading turning into a demanding passion. The dynamics swelled from a whisper to a full-throated roar, but the clarity was never lost. Every single note was a polished bead on a string. Leo could feel the other students around him holding their breath. They were not listening to a peer anymore. They were listening to a master. They were listening to the person who would take the spot they all wanted, win the prize they all dreamed of. The music reached its climax, a series of brilliant, cold chords, and then it receded. The nymph, rejected, weeps and vanishes in a spray of water. Kai played the final bars with a heart-stopping delicacy, the notes rising up the keyboard, dissolving into silence. He held his hands over the keys for a long moment. Then he let them drop to his lap. The hall was silent for a full ten seconds. No one moved. No one coughed. It was the most profound applause Leo had ever hear Sokolova looked at Kai. She had not moved during the entire performance, her hands still folded on the table. “The rallentando at measure eighty-eight,” she said. “You pulled back the tempo by perhaps a tenth of a second too much. The composer asks for a weeping sound. You gave us a sigh. There is a difference. It is the difference between grief and resignation. Do it again.” It was the highest praise she could give. To ignore an entire performance of flawless, terrifying virtuosity and focus on a single, microscopic point of interpretation was a sign of immense respect. It meant she had heard him. It meant she considered him an equal, someone with whom to discuss the fine points of the art. Kai nodded once. “Yes, Madame Sokolova.” He turned back to the piano, found the spot in his memory, and played the four bars again. This time, there was a subtle change in the timing, a weight to the notes that was infinitesimally heavier. It was grief. “Better,” Sokolova said. She made a single checkmark on the page in front of her. “Good. Thank you, Mr. Sterling.” Kai stood, bowed again, and walked off the stage. He returned to his seat beside Leo. He looked straight ahead, his face impassive. Leo could feel the heat coming off him, the afterglow of the performance. “Mr. Fallon,” Sokolova said, her pen already poised over a fresh page. Leo’s legs felt heavy as he stood. The walk to the stage was a walk to the gallows. The wood seemed

to push back against his feet. He could feel Kai’s performance still hanging in the air. He sat at the other piano, the one that had not been touched yet today. The keys were cool. “Liszt,” he said, his own voice sounding rough and uncertain. “Transcendental Étude Number Four. Mazeppa.” He took a deep breath. He thought of the horse, the wild gallop. He thought of his own frustration in the practice room. He decided to embrace it. He would not try to be perfect like Kai. He would be powerful. He would give them fire. He launched into the opening chords. The sound was huge, a crashing, dissonant roar that filled the hall. He threw his shoulders and the weight of his body into the keys. The gallop began in the left hand, a frantic, thundering rhythm. He played it faster than he ever had before, pushing the tempo to the edge of chaos. The melody in the right hand was a shout, a scream against the storm. He felt a surge of adrenaline. This was his territory. Not the cool, intellectual landscape of Ravel, but the raw, bloody ground of Romanticism. He was Mazeppa, bound to the wild beast, and he would ride it or die. He felt the triplets in the B section coming, the passage Kai had warned him about. He ignored the warning. He drove into them with pure force, his arms tense, his wrists locked. He could feel the notes starting to smudge, the clean edges blurring into a percussive roar. But there was power in it. There was passion. He could feel it. He was giving them smoke, but the smoke was from a burning cathedral. He hit the octaves with a brutal, satisfying violence. The piano shuddered under the assault. He was sweating now, his shirt sticking to his back. The music was a red fog. He was no longer thinking about the notes. He was thinking about the feeling, the rage, the desperation. He was wrestling the music to the ground and he believed he was winning. “Stop.” The word, spoken quietly from the small table on the stage, cut through the noise like a shard of ice. Leo’s hands froze over the keys. The sound stopped so abruptly that the silence was a physical blow. A single, muddy chord still hung in the air, vibrating. He turned his head. Sokolova was looking at him. Her eyes were not angry. They were worse. They were disappointed. “You are a brawler, Mr. Fallon,” she said, her voice even. “You are trying to win a fistfight with a ghost. Liszt is not your enemy. He is your partner. He has given you a map to a very specific, very beautiful, very dangerous place. You have chosen to set the map on fire and scream in the dark.”

Leo felt a flush of heat creep up his neck. His hands, still hovering over the keyboard, began to tremble. “Passion is not an excuse for mess,” Sokolova said, her stare unwavering. “It is the fuel for a very precise engine. You are spilling it all over the floor. You give us smoke. It is black and it stinks of effort.” She made a small, elegant gesture with her silver pen towards the empty chair where Kai had sat. “He gives us diamonds. Cut with a laser. Go home and learn the difference.” She turned the page on her desk, and that was the final act of dismissal. “Mr. Chen. You may begin.” Leo sat there for a moment, paralyzed. The silence from the audience was different now—pity, not awe. He stood up from the piano bench, his legs stiff. He walked off the stage. He did not look at anyone. He walked down the aisle, past the rows of his silent classmates, past the empty seat next to Kai. He did not stop. He pushed open the doors at the back of the hall and walked out into the bright, indifferent hallway.

Subin Park

Design St. Paul’s School Concord, NH

Rewoven Dignity, 2025 Reclaimed Fabric, Adobe Illustrator, InDesign

Mara Popa

Visual Arts Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts New York, NY

Wrong currency, 2025 Oil on canvas

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Tullan Advincula Portock

Film Los Angeles High School of the Arts Los Angeles, CA

Running Flat, 2025 Narrative, 7 min., 24 sec.

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Dev Rai

Nonfiction Oakton High School Vienna, VA

The Price of a Tomato The tomatoes arrived at dawn in green plastic crates that still smelled like the field. Their skins were taut. Their stems were dusted with powdery pollen. When I lifted the top crate, warm air rose from the stack like breath. It surprised me that tomatoes had a temperature, that they retained the memory of the morning sun even after the truck had rumbled for an hour through the shade. My job at the market was simple. Set up the tent. Stack the crates. Angle the chalkboard so the price was visible from the sidewalk. Smile. Weigh. Bag. Say thank you. During the first week, I apologized for the cost to anyone who raised an eyebrow. Four dollars a pound. I said the words quickly and in a lower voice, as if a whisper could make them smaller. Grocery stores around the corner sold tomatoes for less. I had seen them in pyramids under fluorescent lights, waxed and uniform, identical as drilled pearls. I believed in fairness without knowing what fair meant. On the third Saturday, the farm owner, Ana, asked if I wanted to see the field. We left before sunrise in a van that rattled even when parked. A few of the workers slept against the windows, heads bumping in a rhythm that looked painful and familiar. Out of town, the road ran straight between long rectangles of brown earth. We turned down a narrower lane and passed rows of stakes and twine where the vines leaned in waves, each plant tied to a stake like a child holding a hand in a crowded place. Work began with the dew still on the leaves. Harvesting tomatoes is repetitive, but not simple. You bend. You look for color that is not just red, but the right red. You twist without tearing the shoulder. You cradle the fruit in a palm while your other hand already reaches for the next. You stand and stretch a back that complains in a language of sparks, then you bend again. Within an hour, my knees ached as if sand had been poured into the joints. Within two, a line of sweat had traced a path from my collar to my waistband. The others moved like a practiced song. They made a line. They passed full crates like buckets at a fire. They laughed at jokes I could not hear over the buzz of insects. I picked with the concentration of a beginner and tried to stay out of the way.

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At lunch, we sat on overturned crates and ate tortillas and beans from foil packets that tasted like salt and smoke. A man named José showed me the scar on his right index finger where a stake had sliced him open the previous season. He called it his second smile. He told me that his wife worked nights cleaning offices and that they took turns sleeping while their daughter learned to crawl on a blanket in the living room. He said the field was better than the factory because the air moved, but that the pay was the same. He said he was grateful for the season and also tired of being thankful for the same season every year. When we returned to the market the next morning, I looked at the chalkboard differently. Four dollars a pound was no longer a number. It was a chain of moments. Ana is calculating how many plants to seed in March. The spring frost killed a quarter of the first transplants. The sudden afternoon wind snapped the string on a hundred stakes. The hands that tied new knots. The hands that bent, picked, lifted, and stacked. The gas in the truck. The stall fee. The boxes themselves. The seconds in which a customer decides whether to buy or to walk on. I began discussing the price. Not defensively. Not as a lecture. Quietly, as if telling a story that might be useful. When a customer compared our tomatoes to the cheaper ones at the chain store, I said that ours came from ten miles away and that if they arrived bruised, someone had placed them too hard in the crate, and that if they arrived perfect, someone had paid attention for hours to color, texture, and weight. I said that the other tomatoes had traveled in refrigerated trailers for days and that travel solves some problems and creates others. I said that taste is not a moral category, but that flavor carries a history. Sometimes, the customer nodded and handed me two more tomatoes, saying, “Thank you.” Sometimes the customer rolled their eyes. I weighed and bagged for both kinds. There were regulars whose attention taught me how to be a better witness. A retired teacher bought three tomatoes every week and told me how she planned to use them. One for a sandwich with pepper and too much mayonnaise—her words, not mine. One for a salad with cucumber, red onion, and vinegar that stung the eyes. One to roast with garlic until the skin

splits and sags. A line cook in checkered pants bought the seconds we kept under the table, the ones with small cracks around the stem or a bruise the size of a thumbprint. He said that ugliness evaporated under heat and salt, and that the flavor of a second taught humility to a perfect fruit. There were also the people who haggled even though this was not a place where haggling made sense. A man in a crisp polo once tried to lower the price by offering to buy a dozen pounds, as if volume could erase the hour that went into each pound. Ana smiled and said that we only provided discounts at the very end of the day to avoid waste. He bought six pounds anyway and told his companion that shopping local was a civic duty and a spiritual act. He said that sentence with a straight face and then asked for a plastic bag to double the paper one. The market was a theater of small performances. The couple who treated each purchase like a date. The older woman who slipped a dollar into the tip jar and miscounted her change as if the numbers were a kindness we should all share. The runner who said he had earned his tomatoes. The father who bought one tomato and gave a slice to each of his three children, the juice running down their wrists in parallel lines. The city council member took a photo in front of the stall, holding a tomato level with his chest, with the bright red circle over the printed logo on his shirt. By midseason, I could tell time by the angle of the sun on the scale pan and by the noise of the vendor selling lemonade two stalls down. I learned to stack the crates in a way that looked full but did not crush the fruit underneath. I learned to hide a small bowl of salt behind the till and to dip a slice for the owner of the hardware store, who swore that salt made truth come out of a tomato. He said salt made him honest, too. He always bought extra after the second pinch. The workers came to the market once, on an afternoon when an unexpected storm closed the field. They walked through the rows of tents quietly, as if visiting a museum where they recognized the art but did not feel invited to speak. I waved them over, and for a second the boundaries blurred. José laughed at the price on the chalkboard and said that he did not think any fruit he had touched could be worth that much. Ana said, without looking at him, that the number was not a prayer, but a calculation, and that she would pay more if she could. She also hoped one day to hire more workers than the field had room for, because that would mean the farm had survived another year. Toward the end of the season, a heatwave caused the tomatoes to ripen all at once. We had more fruit than table space. Ana called two local food pantries and asked if they could take donations. The

first said yes, happily. The second said they could not accept fresh produce without a signed waiver and a refrigeration plan in place. We boxed what we could and drove the rest to a community fridge located next to a laundromat with a hand-painted sign. A child in a Spider-Man shirt watched us fill the shelves. He took one tomato, turned it in his hand as if examining a planet, then tucked it into the pocket of his backpack and ran inside to tell someone that there was something beautiful out there. I don’t know if he used the word “beautiful.” That is what his face said. The price of a tomato is a mirror. It reflects what we are willing to see and what we refuse to name. There is the farm worker who leaves home before dawn and returns after dark, who bathes with a jug and a bucket because the water heater is broken, and the landlord says it will be fixed next week, always next week. There is the landlord who runs the numbers and decides that the cost of repairs exceeds the revenue. As a result, the leak continues until the ceiling sags, the tenant moves out, and a new tenant moves in with the same hope and the same caution. There is the shopper who wants to do the right thing but also wants to pay less because everything is expensive, and their paycheck does not stretch. There is the farm owner who juggles fertilizer bills, fuel receipts, seed orders, payroll, and the weather report, which is a story with a new villain every year. People sometimes asked me if I thought the market made a difference, or if it was just a feel-good scene for people who could afford to feel good. The honest answer is that it was both. We sold food that tasted like the place it grew. We told the truth about the work without turning the stall into a sermon. We accepted that a chalkboard would not change the city, but we refused to let that truth become an excuse for silence. Every conversation about price was a chance to weigh the weight of a day in the field against the weight of a wallet that was already too light. The scale never balanced. We tried anyway. After the last market of the season, we held a potluck behind the farm stand. Everyone brought a dish that was mostly tomatoes. There was sauce simmered for hours until it clung to the spoon like a promise. There was a salad with bread that had soaked up the juice and turned the color of late afternoon. There were tomatoes stuffed with rice, herbs and pine nuts that snapped under the teeth. The workers came with their families. The council member did not come. The runner came and brought beer. The child in the Spider-Man shirt arrived with his mother and a cake in a box that listed three flavors and had room for a fourth that someone had decided not to include. We ate until the bowls were clean and the children

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began to run between the tables with the last cherry tomatoes balanced on their palms like marbles. When the sun went down, someone turned on a string of lights, and the field looked like a city at night. I took a tomato home in my bag because I wanted a private ending. I sliced it on a cutting board that still smelled like garlic from a previous meal. I salted it because the hardware store owner was right: Salt draws out the truth. I ate it standing up, which is the least ceremonial way to honor a season and also the closest to how the season had been lived. The taste was bright and a little wild, as if part of the field had refused to be tamed by new hands. I thought of José’s scar. I thought of Ana’s math. I thought of the chalkboard and the eyebrows that rose and the wallets that opened and the ones that did not. The tomato did not answer any of the questions I had carried all summer, but it did not ignore them either. It made space for them to sit at the table. It reminded me that value is not only a number. It is a story, and stories are made of people who are trying, and failing, and trying again. When people ask me now why the price is what it is, I do not apologize. I do not whisper. I tell them that four dollars a pound buys flavor, time, and a measure of respect. I tell them that a tomato is a small red argument in favor of seeing each other. The field is not a postcard. It is a place where backs hurt and hands stain and jokes keep a line moving in the heat. The market is not a temple. It is a place where a number on a chalkboard becomes a conversation that is sometimes generous and sometimes not. The pantry that took donations fed people that week, and the pantry that asked for a waiver is run by volunteers who are trying to do things right inside rules that were written without the smell of a field in mind. A good tomato goes bad fast. That is a truth and a metaphor. It is also a reason to eat slowly when you can and quickly when you must, and to thank the people who made either possible. A fruit cannot carry justice on its own. It can have a reminder. There are hands behind every meal. There are hands behind every number. When I put a tomato on a scale, I am placing a day on a tray. When the needle settles, I ask the person across from me what they can afford, and I meet them there if I can. The math rarely feels clean. The work often feels holy. At the very end, when the stakes are pulled and the vines are brown threads and the crates are stacked in a neat tower in the barn, the field looks like a page that has been erased. If you look closely, you can see the faint lines where the sentence used to be. You can see the marks of the hand that wrote it. In spring, the story begins again. The seeds are small as punctuation. The first leaves open like quotation marks. The plants

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learn to stand with help. The flowers arrive with a float of yellow that feels like a rumor. Then the fruit. Then the weight of it in your palm. Then the knife in your kitchen, the salt, the first bite, and the thought that returns every year. Someone made this possible. Someone deserves to be seen.

Marcel Rosas

Design Summit School Ojai, CA

Upcycled ‘70s Swiss Wool Blanket Trench, 2025 Mixed media

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Yossi EunChong Rosen

Fiction Sidwell Friends School Washington, DC

Treeline Mama’s in her red dress. Tight bodice, full skirt. Mama wears no shoes, but she clasps a belt around her waist. Mama’s gonna make us sit on the porch till she’s finished. We see him coming down the gravel road in a jalopy: big, dirty, and dented. It reverberates. A ripple of guitar. Hank Williams’s slow-moving voice. Tar Heel State is painted on the fender. The man wears rustling Sunday clothes that smell like Florida Water. But we don’t see his face because he wears a straw hat. At noon, the man footsteps out the screen door, and Mama shows us her hands. Her eyes are black, her fingers interleafed with bills. Her red dress ripples. I touch the hem, my hands soft, the dress stiff as pinecone. Mama pushes me away, puts the bills in her pockets. She points at the dress, eyes on Mae. Mama yells at Mae. Don’t think schooling’s gonna better you! You ain’t no more shit than me! Money ain’t gonna come no other way. You’re a woman now! I don’t choose, and you don’t choose. My feet walk, and the door closes. I lean against the wall. I hear Mama and Mae, feel their voices, feel their words. I keep walking. From behind the thick-beamed cotton house, through the stem-starred field buzzing with bees, I see Mae go to the treeline. Mama said the treeline is dangerous. She told us, her fingers pointing toward its green glare. There ain’t no path there, and if there was, it wouldn’t be for us. Only thickets and brambles and branches to get stuck in. No way out. But Mae goes anyway, sure-footed. Later, as I drift off to sleep, Mae tells me about it. She tells me about the trees, the lime in their limbs; their eyes, black-buttoned; about their castle, deepvined in purple hibiscus. She tells me, her voice a feathered song. At the schoolhouse, Mae holds me, her back a wall. They call Mama slut. Each one of them. They point at us, tell it to us straight. They pull my hair so my plaits unravel. They hit us. Mae shoves them away. But I can’t be with Mae all day. Come here, let me show you something. Mae takes me to the treeline, takes me to the trees. I think of the time she took me to see the birds’ eggs resting unborn on the rim of the roof, trapped in their gray domes. But this is different. Mae walks, sharp-

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boned as daggers. She shows me the pine, young and thin; the oak, green as my eyes. Their bark is old, but their branches push out new leaves. See these limbs. They’re strong. Got fight in them. Not gonna get lugged or pulled or pushed by anybody. You best remember that. The air is heavy, thick with wood smoke, flitting with owls, croaking with frogs. Murmuring horseflies and fish-eyed mosquitos caress my skin. Mae weaves beneath the trees, beneath their flowered understory. Once the bruises bloom all over, Mae knows I’m not gonna fight back against the school kids, not gonna make knives with my elbows, blades with my fists. I told her I was, but when she sees my bruises, she tells me straight. We’re not going back there. I tell her I’m not scared. I tell her, but her eyes aren’t going. That evening, Mae footsteps. I see her through the screen door, see her through the windows, see her pass the thick-beamed cotton house, see her pass the field, see her pass through and through. The pines wave like wefts, the treetops heavy. I see her walk through the treeline. Mae brings me back the songs of the trees, softleaved, basketed in pine needles. She smells of their fresh-wood rustlings, their bark-stroked branches, their milk-white flowerings. She hangs for me one of their pinecones, nails it into the windowpane and calls it a dream catcher. I tell her I don’t dream, and she smiles, her eyes plums. The man comes back again, and Mama looks at Mae. Mae’s in the red dress now. Full-skirted, tight bodice. She clasps the belt around her waist. Her hair’s in a rolled updo. Mae’s wet-eyed, but she tells me, go. She tells me, leave; she pushes me outside. The screen door cries, and I see the treetops. The man wears dusty steel-toed boots, his back slimy as swamp mud, his eyes red as old meat blood. The porch creaks. I gather my gingham and look through the window, my eyes thick on Mae, thick on the man who leads her past the pantry. Done, the man throws a cigarette butt on the gravel before starting the engine, smoke rising. A trickle of music. Ernest Tubb’s gravelly tones. I look up at the trees, their leaves whipping, see their geese, their voices like wounded possum.

Mae holds me against her. Her panty’s loose. She tells me, her voice weak, you don’t gotta worry. She fingers my braids. She looks through the windowed wall, looks through the branches. She looks through and through, her eyes rivering. I touch her fist, hardshelled. It opens, and the bills in it flutter like wings. The next time the man comes, he isn’t wearing a shirt or a straw hat. His mouth is barbed with a beard, his hair coiled with curls. He sees me on the porch. He notices my chest with his burlap-brown eyes, hears my breath. When the man’s gone, Mae tells me, her lips slow, slow as molasses. A mosquito nuzzles my hand, but I don’t swat it. I just listen, the words balmy, guiding me. She tells me, for the first time, about the creature. She roams the forest, Mae whispers. Furred with fronds, antlered with branches, breasted with blossom. She tells me about the beast’s belly, a warm-boned hill, lapped with sighing fur. Bearing a seed. Marrow-deep, deeper than fluid and sac and cord. The seed shackles her. But only by it can she go loose and free. My eyes are thick on Mae. Mae speaks, touching her belly. I’m not bleeding. I go to the trees, brushing their bark, velvetbacked with moss. Fire ants furrow the forest floor. Their passage is like lava, a crack in the earth. A rosered ant flows up my leg. I ease it off with my finger, freeing it, a red orb through the green grass. Mae’s in bed, under patched counterpanes, deep-eyed on the treeline, on the cotton clouds. I go up beside her, a freshly-made sass leaf tincture in hand. She takes it from me. I saw the creature. I saw her. Mae looks at me, dark circles around her eyes, the bones in her face protruding as cypress knees. Saw her gait, thick and slow. Saw her belly, thick as moonstone. The seed’s in her. She turns to me. It’s growing. It’s flowering. Budding and free. She turns back toward the window, eyes glazed. A soft wind blows. The trees waver. She sips the tincture, then guzzles the rest. When she’s finished, she places the cup on the floor. Her eyes turn glassy. Mae hunkers down on the bed, her mouth spewing yellow. The counterpanes fall all over, muddy with yellow slugs. Mama comes in, wide-eyed. What in Jesus’ name did you do? Mama sharply eyes the counterpanes. You ruined my quilts. Fast as a fleet, Mama comes up to the bed and smacks Mae across the cheek. Mama. Mae’s eyes are rivering. Mama’s breathing, jagged as sticks. Piece of shit. Can’t even pleasure a man right. Mama leaves, hard-toed as oxen.

I tell Mae sorry. It isn’t your doing. I hold her. The man doesn’t come again, and Mae doesn’t stand up, except to pee in the bowl. Mama doesn’t come in, except to empty the bowl. Mae doesn’t speak anymore, and I don’t bring sass leaves. Mae doesn’t do anything except look out with sleepless eyes, through the windowed walls, at the trees, the leaves, murmuring as the sea, whispering as a wall of pine. I go to the treeline. When I come back, Mama tells me, her eyes sawdust. Mae’s dead. The ground is gone, the walls opening to the sky. The sky darkens the walls, upends the plaster, thickets the floors, sprouting trees, pine-needled pines, birch, molasses-boned as toffee, oaks choked with branches, spined as sparrows, chokecherry trees, berried and bristling. I hear Mama’s voice. It’s loud, clear. Mama points at the man. Call me Mr. Anders. He eyes me, his voice a rattling wheel. Damn. That mothering done this girl right. I look at the treetops, their branches, their whirls. We walk to the treeline. The grass is itchy, shindeep. He’s five steps ahead of me. Cicadas bleat like dogs, sad chiming. Bark licks my skin like tongues. He’s walking, the crunch of his boots. Mute, I walk my hips, my hands. The moon leaves us at the treeline. But we keep walking, him leading. The earth doesn’t give, and the trees don’t move, but we move. Mama showed me how to do it. Mama showed me. Now, understand, it ain’t about what you want. Mae showed me the money, soft as leaves. The young ones undress faster. But the older ones come back. Depend on it. Mama’s voice was hoarse, and she laughed. Right here. He stops, scanning. The ground here is sponge-like, but the world sighs, the treetops, big and heavy. His clothes now lie folded on the ground, but his underwear is still on. The red dress is on, and I clasp Mama’s belt. My back touches the earth. He footsteps to the glade, cloistered by trees. Now he lies next to me in drunk sleep. There is something in my chest. In it, I hear water rushing, pulling. A feeling. The trees are thinning, sunlight climbing, starlight showing. The sound of leaves. A swish. Steps. I look up, and I see the creature. Shaped like a turtle, big as a bull. But her body is all withered leaves, all loose acorns, blackened, ready to drop, all bony gauntness. The rush in my chest pulls. The creature murmurs like wind through leaves, like blood through bone. I inch closer and she whispers. Bloom, she seems to say, and I go closer, seeking her voice, yearning for her words.

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The man says something, and I glance back at him, snoring and muttering. Just like that, he murmurs, right there. I turn back towards the creature, but she is gone. The next man is big and broad-shouldered. He leads the choir. He makes me sit on the pew, until we’re done sweating. But his touch is light. He starts light. Through the window, the sky is long and white, bare of blue, the trees thick with yellow and red. My red dress slides down the pew until the belt grazes the floor. The next time, I know everything. For a while, I let my body float over itself. The man is on me, heavy, face like pitch, pokey with bone. I shove him off. My hands are deft as knives. I hoist the red dress up, reach for the belt. My fingers graze the sharp edge. Metallic. He murmurs in his sleep. I rifle through his bag. The paper money, soft and smooth. Soft as skin. Smell like leaves. I feel Mama. Her voice is tall and light, airy from age. She speaks as though she is here, as though she is not just a transparency in the black of my mind. She’s proud. I think about Mae, think about her death. Died doing what she needed to do, Mama said. Freedom, Mae said. The bluebirds go from branch to branch and their young hatch from eggs or sit in nests, waiting to fly. Bloom, the creature said. No other way, Mama said. A man knocks on the screen. Next to him is another. Behind them, the trees hang low and green. They wait. I don’t have to open the door. I can leave them on the porch step, leave them to dry up and wither like wheat. Leave them to starve. But there is a surge in my chest. A surge of ambition. I want legions extending to the roads, extending to the rivers. I want multitudes. They’ll come like ships, and I will let them in. The bills will droop in their hands like bent leaves. Let them come. And they do. They flank the length of the house, crowding the joins, the tin roof convulsing, the wood siding trembling. Pitching floorboards, quaking beams, windowed walls, all eclipsed by men. I feel the foundation shuddering and stirring to their rhythms. My red dress is on. At a certain point, I know I must run. I flee to the treeline, trailed by men, big and tall and thick and long. One of them jumps from the side, pushing me to the ground. My back touches dirt as he shifts on my bodice. I pull my belt off and slice through his arm till the buckle thuds against bone. His insides are like tongues, warm as feldspar. Blood flows over his fingers. He falls to the side, howling, and I run away, my dress slithering down my hips. I pull up the bodice, my

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legs moving. The men stampede. The ground is muddy as tree roots, thudding to their rumbling. My breath hitches. I can only run, and I do. At last, the treeline, the forest, the darkness. In the distance there is a murmuring. A slip of sound. A shifting. I listen. There is a voice. It moves as liquid but guides as a map. The earth shifts, the world colors, and I see green. I go to the voice. The grass sighs and the cicadas rise. My feet whisper and hum. All I see is forest. Then I see gray, and as I get closer I see it is the creature. Four-legged. Shelled as a turtle, her head is boned as carcass, muscled with air. She noses a tree and the leaves part. Each step is soundless. I go behind, led by her. The leaves close behind us and the trees uproot themselves. Tripping trunks, slamming branches, hips of bramble and briar fall down, blocking the path, barring the men. The men are beyond, out of sight, out of mind. She is a line, leading me. Around us is sound and sight and shifting. Bees rise, glowing as dust motes. Mosquitoes buzz but do not bite. Nightjars flutter, their wings fronds. Fireflies star the night’s domed ceiling. Hibiscus grows here in purple. Lime rests in the tree limbs. The creature moves and daisies petal in her boned crevices, moss sprouts in her striates. She says something, close to a whisper. Look, she seems to say, look. And the more I look, the more I feel the murmuring from the forest, from the animals, a choir chanting in unison, look. Feeling floods my sternum, running like a river to the tips of my fingers, screaming in my skull, loosening the pain, this deep ache. Mae holds me against her. My feet fan out from beneath me into roots, many-tendriled fingers parting and spreading in the soil, unhindered; buds sprout from beneath my fingernail beds, birthing stems that bloom into branches, branches that harbor leaves, leaves that will harbor nests that bear eggs that hatch into birds. My skin hardens and brindles into bark so that I am fleshless. Look, the creature says. Look at her flower.

Ashley Shim

Poetry North Allegheny Senior High School Wexford, PA

Receipt for Being a Girl SEPHORA - NORTH HUNTINGTON PLAZA TRANSACTION #847392001 10/04/2025 6:47 PM I am twelve when I learn that my face is a fixer-upper, that the cashier’s smile is a kind of pity. My mother hands me a tube of concealer the color of Band-Aids and says this is what women do.

URBAN DECAY Naked Palette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $54.00 (decay is right—I am rotting into something sellable)

The girl at school with virgin skin gets called natural beauty like it’s a compliment, like I chose to wake up a crime scene. I spend my allowance becoming anonymous.

Ardell False Lashes (3-pack) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .$12.99 DUO Lash Adhesive (clear) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $7.49 (little black centipedes to make my eyes worth looking at)

My boyfriend says he likes me better without makeup. I do not tell him that what he calls “without” took forty minutes. That “natural” is a $300 investment.

Good Girl Perfume by Carolina Herrera . . . . . . $145.00 (spray it where the blood rushes closest to the surface—where you’re most convincingly alive) I am good. I am so good. I show up on time with my face on. I laugh at his jokes. I suck in my stomach in photographs. I apologize for the space I take up and then I make myself smaller, a collapsible girl, pocket-sized and portable.

Dior Lip Oil (shade: Rosewood) . . . . . . . . . . . . . $40.00 (because lipstick is try-hard but dry lips are neglect)

Ouai Leave-In Conditioner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $28.00 Ouai Hair Oil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $30.00 (hair like I woke up in a shampoo commercial, like I didn’t spend an hour with a flat iron and self-loathing)

(medieval torture device for something already dead)

My little cousin is nine. She asks me to teach her how to contour. I want to tell her no, that she is perfect, that her face doesn’t need geography lessons in shadow and light. Instead, I show her where to carve valleys into her cheeks, how to terraform herself into acceptability.

NARS Orgasm Blush . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $32.00

Lululemon Define Jacket . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $128.00

Shiseido Eyelash Curler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $25.00

(they named it that on purpose— we’re supposed to look like we just came from being wanted)

On TikTok, a girl with glass skin tells me beauty is effortless, also free, also something you’re born with or you’re not. I am trying to prove her wrong one transaction at a time.

(define: to state the exact meaning of— in this case, casual affluence, athletic aspiration, the uniform of trying not to look like you’re trying)

UGG Classic Mini II Boots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .$170.00 I do the math. Since twelve, I have spent roughly $8,340 on the project of my face.

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Not counting the hair appointments, the waxing, the manicures that chip in three days, the clothes I buy and never wear because the tags are still attached to my self-worth.

with my mouth closed because my teeth weren’t straight yet, because I didn’t know then that even joy requires the right cosmetics.

Too Faced Better Than Sex Mascara . . . . . . . . . .$31.00

The cashier hands me my bags, says have a nice day, and I will—I will have a nice, expensive, exhausting day being a girl who loves being a girl even as the price climbs higher, even as I sign my name on another dotted line.

(better than—they said it, not me) At Nordstrom, I try on Louboutins. The red soles wink up at me like stop signs, like arterial spray, like the bloody footprints I’d leave if I could afford to walk in them. The salesperson says you have expensive taste and I want to say no, I have a body that’s been taxed since puberty.

Christian Louboutin Heels (aspirational) . . . . . $795.00

Outside, my friend asks if I want food. I say I’m not hungry. I spent my appetite at the register.

(I do not buy these but I carry them in my throat like a wish, like a second mortgage)

I am so beautiful now. I am so broke. I am so good.

MAC Fix+ Setting Spray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $33.00

THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING PLEASE COME AGAIN

(to set it all in place— to make sure the mask doesn’t slip, doesn’t crack, doesn’t reveal that underneath I am still just salt and trying)

SUBTOTAL: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $1,536.48 TAX (6.0%): . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $92.19 TOTAL: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $1,628.67 PAYMENT METHOD: GIRLHOOD BALANCE REMAINING: INFINITY The receipt is long enough to wrap around my waist twice, long enough to be a measuring tape, long enough to mark every inch I’ve tried to erase or improve. At the bottom, in tiny print: ALL SALES FINAL NO REFUNDS NO EXCHANGES BEAUTY NOT GUARANTEED I fold it into my wallet next to my school ID where I’m smiling

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(and I will—tomorrow, next week, for the rest of my life, or at least until I can afford to stop)

Sabrina Simek

Film Harvard-Westlake Upper School Studio City, CA

Past Present and Future, 2025 Experimental, 3 min., 5 sec.

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Keshav Subash

Visual Arts Lovejoy High School Lucas, TX

How did I get here? (The Wheel of Life), 2024 Digital illustrations on hot-press watercolor paper, hand-assembled base from lasercut pine

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Kurn Sundaram

Spoken Word BASIS Independent Silicon Valley Upper School San Jose, CA

oxygen the flight attendant always told me to put my oxygen mask on before assisting others. before resisting to start lifting the sun to the sky, before pretending this isn’t a disguise, to hide what i’m seeking to speak behind the rhyme, before my palms char from cradling the sun in my arms. make me your shooting star. the way these wings are burning but still flying turning to ash but denying to breathe, defying these wounds their right to see a fraction of light for a fraction of time, fractal like branches fragmenting my family line, taking what’s meant to be mine— i never wore my oxygen mask that day. asphyxiated till i decayed, my family bathed in their blissful ignorance. what i’m trying to say is this: i buried my lungs in a grave i don’t ever visit. the tombstone explicit in its erosion, my casket tumbling fumbled from these fingers unconsenting // do you feel it? // cause after that moment, where my larynx was burned and blurred into this mess of a mouth, i learned to take every airplane imaginable. to every distance. around the coast of my existence: 300 miles. 30,000 feet high. my engines roared to life, yet i was just a passenger in my own flight walking to the tiny cockpit. a silent dance there, with the ghost of the life i almost had. slipping through my fingers like ash, like a crashing plane, like a noisy machine forced not to scream, like this throat. self-taught in the art of choking on what began as a secret. lived so long it turned into an elegy: can you help me? will you help me? cause i can’t breathe but the flight attendant said “not to panic! just brace for impact—” as this body is first exhibit then exploited, innards swollen then stolen, he said he would go slowly. that the life vest would fill slowly they said: just wait. don’t worry. if there’s no air, if you can’t breathe, it’s just turbulence. you’ll get used to it. you better get used to it, don’t scream. know that you are meant to suffocate in silence.

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even as this plane nosedives into the Pacific, get used to the whiplash the flashbacks the nausea the guilt get used to it cause it’s your life now. it takes a moment a moment to crash but an eternity to put the pieces back, to fix the damage to salvage this wreck of a human being // do you see it? // cause i’ve tried to write this poem over 200 times now. but it’s not easy when you’re this good at pretending it never happened. as if wishing upon enough stars will make it true. it never happened. it never happened. it happened and that’s okay. but i don’t want to fall down again. don’t want to fall and drown again. don’t want to have to act intact again. don’t want to pretend like it’s okay if I can’t breathe as long as those I love can. cause that scar runs the length of my body. a mosaic of surviving a plane crash and not telling anyone. it took a long time to find those lungs i buried. to learn to love this body. to turn from passenger to pilot to realize that no one can steal my right to breathe. so the next time my voice asks me to put my oxygen mask on before assisting others, just know that i’m going to speak. // do you hear it? //

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Jericca Taste

Photography Stivers School for the Arts Dayton, OH

Image 4 from series Mother, Mama, 2025 Digital photograph

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Leah Weiser

Play or Script Walnut Hill School for The Arts Natick, MA

GATORZ CHARACTERS: SEBASTIAN - Man, mid-30s. Helped the FBI with Cuba-related operations despite not being a U.S. citizen. Now mows the lawns for a university football field. Facing deportation. GRACE - Woman, late 40s. Immigration lawyer. AURORA - Woman, early 30s. Sebastian’s wife. FLOE – Man, mid-20s, ICE agent. This is a fictional exploration of the immigration detention facility Alligator Alcatraz. Characters are entirely fictional. Not meant to represent real people.

Summer 2025

TIME:

PLACE: South Florida: an attorney’s office, a kitchen, an immigration detention facility known as “Alligator Alcatraz” SYNOPSIS: Alligator Alcatraz, a detention center in South Florida, with inhumane conditions and restricted access for those inside. Sebastian, an undocumented immigrant, awaits his bond hearing. Outside, his wife, Aurora, struggles to maintain hope, making urgent phone calls with their lawyer, Grace. Floe, an ICE agent, is tasked with fulfilling deportation quotas. The play examines the meaning of freedom and the consequences of a system so vast that it devours everyone within it. PLAYWRIGHT STATEMENT: As a first-generation American, I have seen firsthand the confusion and pain caused by the immigration system. I wanted to explore what it truly means to be American, especially at a time when people in my family are too scared to claim that identity. PRODUCTION NOTES: All characters communicate through their phones, except Floe. The symbol “/” shows quick cuts between thoughts or dialogue shifts. An alligator head hovers over the stage at all times, ticking occasionally to emphasize the slow erosion of the people within the system.

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Lights up. An enormous alligator’s mouth looms over the stage; teeth cast shadows like prison bars. A faint ticking pulses beneath everything. Center stage, SEBASTIAN sits on a metal bench, clutching a corded detention phone. FLOE stands rigid to his right. Stage left, AURORA occupies a cramped kitchen, cell phone glowing in hand. Stage right, GRACE at her cluttered desk. Phones start ringing. Overlapping sounds. The ticking ceases, leaving only the phones ringing. A brief moment of tense silence and stillness ensues. SEBASTIAN They tell us nothing. And they know. They know exactly where. Exactly when. But they don’t tell us. ‘Cause truth? Truth starts riots. They don’t wanna deal with that. But I hear ‘em. Captain whisperin’ to the sergeant. Sergeant whisperin’ to nurses. It’s their job to keep the fire down, but I deserve to know. Don’t I? GRACE picks up her cell phone and presses it closer to her ear. GRACE Yes... I’m trying. I swear I’m listening. Hold. Just hold. She said to hold.

AURORA

SEBASTIAN Man, I’ve been holding for so long. AURORA I was born here. You hear me? Born here. I know. He fled Cuba.

GRACE AURORA

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GRACE Dates. I need the exact dates. SEBASTIAN Was twenty-two. Now I’m out here cutting grass on the football field. Whole town’s still drunk from that championship we won back in ‘08. GRACE And the vape/ who‘d he sell it to? SEBASTIAN Tell her it was nothing. Don’t blow it bigger. AURORA I don’t know the name. Some kid/ GRACE Your last lawyer filed the wrong motion/ AURORA What do you mean? GRACE She never addressed the deportation order. That’s why they arrested him when you/ AURORA Tried to adjust his status to green card. SEBASTIAN I overstayed... about five years/ The work visa.

AURORA

SEBASTIAN Bugs. Crawlin’ out our mouths. And the captain says to the sergeant, SEBASTIAN FLOE “Don’t worry.” Don’t worry. SEBASTIAN They don’t care, man. AURORA Yeah but not you, babe. You in court on the fourteenth. You can’t be going nowhere ‘til then. SEBASTIAN Yeah, but the lawyer/

Grace.

AURORA

SEBASTIAN She know what she’s doing? AURORA She got clients. Lotta clients. GRACE They may try to delay/ AURORA He can’t wait no more. Maggots in the food. Do you hear me? He’s diabetic. He can’t eat what they’ve given. I’m doing what I can.

GRACE

SEBASTIAN It ain’t for eating. It’s for knowing where you’re at/ Hold.

GRACE

SEBASTIAN That’s the word she loves best. SEBASTIAN AURORA Hold. Hold. Was headin’ to our kid’s ball practice, Route 59/ SEBASTIAN Hold. Hold. Hold. Every day it’s hold. Another ring from GRACE’s phone. The ticking swells. GRACE Hello? Miriam? No, I can’t pick you up, no. Just lie down on the nurse’s bed and ask for Advil. They always have Advil. Yes, I hear it too. I know it’s loud. No, I can’t turn it off. I’m at work! I said I’m working. I’ll come get you at the end of the school day. So, please just wait a little longer. I know, I know, I’m sorry. GRACE gathers a file. She steps toward FLOE. He blocks her path. FLOE You can’t bring that paperwork here.

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GRACE I need to see my client. FLOE Don’t got clients in here. Just illegals. GRACE He has a right to counsel. FLOE He’s got a right to a plane ticket home. GRACE You haven’t looked at the file. FLOE Maybe I will. Maybe we send him to Louisiana. Then you can start over. GRACE returns to her desk. AURORA Babe... don’t get yourself worked up. It won’t help. SEBASTIAN They’ve been doin’ unlawful stuff... Not stopping now. I seen dudes with no papers, yeah, they got no court date... nothing. FLOE yanks the phone from SEBASTIAN. Time’s up.

FLOE

GRACE Did you sign the affidavit? I mailed it/ AURORA I thought/ You said I didn’t need it. GRACE I need it back tomorrow. Latest. Okay.

AURORA

GRACE Hearing is now next week. They’re being difficult about it. No surprise. You must be there. Bring your son. They like to see family. AURORA What if they push back?

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GRACE We’ll appeal immediately/ AURORA It’s been a month already. SEBASTIAN 32 days... 46 minutes... 24 seconds... GRACE puts her phone down. AURORA’s call connects to SEBASTIAN. AURORA Hear anything new? SEBASTIAN I don’t know. Rumors. I need to find someone. AURORA Rumors? Maybe they’re tryna put fear? SEBASTIAN They calling us “flyouts.” AURORA Talking about y’all? Looked at your group? SEBASTIAN We don’t have an order. Hopefully it’s lies. AURORA Nah, that’s got me in panic. I’ll tell Grace tomorrow. Justin’s been askin’... You know that? SEBASTIAN Damn... Tell him I’ll be back. Soon. AURORA Grace wants him there. SEBASTIAN I don’t want him involved. AURORA She says it’ll help your look/ He won the league. His team. Can you believe that? Oh, for real?

SEBASTIAN

AURORA Yeah. They gave him a nice medal/

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SEBASTIAN Already picked out his number...4. That’s the lucky one. AURORA Max is coaching them now. SEBASTIAN He’s always been tryin’ to one-up me. If this goes left, he might permanently. AURORA He’s not you. He ain’t good babe. GRACE carries a new file over to FLOE. FLOE We need the passport. GRACE The statute doesn’t require a passport. FLOE Keep pushing. We’ll fly him out to Sudan. He’ll be buried six feet under before you even know it. GRACE Put that refusal in writing. You’re obligated to accept unless you supply a documented reason. Process this now. GRACE slides the file to Floe, moves back to her desk. FLOE hurls the papers across the stage. SEBASTIAN staggers and falls to his knees.

Help/ Get up.

SEBASTIAN (coughing, ragged) FLOE

SEBASTIAN Please... I can’t breathe right/ FLOE You’re fine. Get up now, or I’ll write you up for malingering. Now. SEBASTIAN Please... please, I can’t...

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FLOE hauls SEBASTIAN offstage. GRACE’s phone rings with a new call. Ticking swells. GRACE What is it, Miriam?... I can’t come. I never promised. Go ask Isabel to drive. You’ll be fine. I checked the fridge. Orange chicken, yeah? No? Okay... okay. Don’t forget your handguards. Maybe I can swing by later... if I finish this. Yeah... okay... good. I love you more. Ticking cuts out. FLOE drags a more disheveled SEBASTIAN back into the room. SEBASTIAN grabs the phone and dials AURORA. SEBASTIAN Aurora... yeah, it’s me... yeah... I’m okay. What happened? It’s cold.

AURORA SEBASTIAN

AURORA Did you ask for a blanket? SEBASTIAN They only hand ‘em out to the old guys. AURORA You’re old enough, Seb. GRACE Listen, Cuba isn’t accepting its citizens back. The agents are moving people fast. AURORA SEBASTIAN Flyouts? Flyouts. GRACE If they process his deportation, he could be on a flight to a third-world country. No notice. Only whatever he has on him. I had a client sign what he thought was a property slip for bedding. They treated it as a waiver. He was gone within twenty-four hours. Be careful. SEBASTIAN I’ll manage, alright.

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AURORA Manage? That’s it? That’s all you got? Yeah.

SEBASTIAN

AURORA Nah. Why are we even still doin’ this? ‘Cause/

SEBASTIAN

AURORA That’s not an answer. It ain’t simple/

SEBASTIAN

AURORA It is. Either we fight or we don’t. SEBASTIAN I’m beat, ‘Rora. I’m done. I don’t know what’s waiting on the other side. I am, baby.

AURORA

SEBASTIAN I know, I know. I’m sorry, ‘Rora. I just wanna sign the damn thing. Be done. No/

AURORA

SEBASTIAN FLOE I do. He does. AURORA You don’t. Please don’t say that to me.

I love you.

SEBASTIAN

AURORA So don’t make me fight you, too. Cause I ain’t playin’, Seb, I’m really not. GRACE cuts in, seizing the line from SEBASTIAN.

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GRACE The agents... they’re asking for his passport. Say it’s for the hearing. AURORA You said the birth certificate was enough. GRACE It is. But they’re insisting. They claim it’s for ID. Once they have it... things move fast. Faster than you want. AURORA So... we don’t give it? GRACE Did not say that, I would advise/ Ticking erupts. GRACE slams the phone down. AURORA Grace?... Advise what? Hello?... GRACE, on another call, halfwhispered. GRACE Who’s this?... Miriam?... What? No, no, I’m coming. Lie down till I get there, okay? She grabs her bag and rushes off. Ticking stops. So, she hung up?

SEBASTIAN

AURORA I can’t do this no more. SEBASTIAN Give it a couple days. AURORA It’s been too long. This isn’t fair at all, we ain’t doing anything wrong.

SEBASTIAN It’s been a day. At least the ward knows I’m still speaking to you.

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AURORA You know something. The others in there...You speak English/ It’s two days from court. SEBASTIAN I’m supposed to/ yeah. AURORA Don’t even know if she’s showin’ up. Don’t even know if she’s doin’ her job. And you know how much we’re paying her? A fortune. Way more than the last one who screwed everything up. That’s why we’re in this stupid mess. I keep thinking if I spend more, if I call more, if I try more, maybe she’ll pay attention. But no. Nobody’s looking. Not at us. Not at you. Not at anyone. SEBASTIAN I hate birds, baby. Especially those blue ones... the trogon. You remember? Always have. They hover, like they own everything. I was supposed to watch the men, but they watched too. On the wires, head cocked... I shot them sometimes. AURORA It’s stretched thin. Every dollar I move. Nothin’ is enough. The university keeps calling for you... I don’t know what to tell ‘em anymore. SEBASTIAN And I swear, man, I’m turning into one of them. The ones I shot. Always circling, flapping, talons everywhere. Stamped and cataloged, tossed like I’m nothing. They call me... like somebody, somewhere is counting me. Like America forgot me. Like God forgot me. And they keep saying it’s the right thing. FLOE The right thing. Under God. SEBASTIAN Yeah... under God. I ask them, baby. I swear I do. Where’s the “under God” part in all of this? GRACE rushes in, blazer half off, papers flying. She snatches up her phone and dials AURORA. AURORA Where have you been? I’ve been calling nonstop. GRACE I had a personal emergency/

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AURORA Personal emergency? The hearing is today! What the hell could be so important that you stopped working? GRACE I didn’t stop. My daughter... she fell. Her back’s broken. Oh...

AURORA

GRACE Yeah. I was there talking to doctors, phone still on my lap, filing your motions, answering emails. I never stopped. AURORA I couldn’t bring Justin/ GRACE That’s fine. You won’t be talking anyway. Okay.

AURORA

GRACE Step up. Eyes forward. AURORA I hope Sebastian knows/ GRACE He’ll be fine. Remember to breathe. AURORA, GRACE, and SEBASTIAN step forward in unison, facing the audience. FLOE stands above, overseeing them. GRACE Your Honor, this man is a husband and a father. Both his wife and son are American citizens. Their little boy, Justin, waits at the door, every sound thinking it’s his father coming home. Do you understand how fragile that is? If it breaks, nothing, no law, no system, can put it back. Yes, Sebastian overstayed his work visa, but he was in the process of getting a green card through marriage. He has done nothing but provide for his family. This is not justice. Your Honor. This man fought with America. For America, helping the FBI. If he goes back to Cuba, he’ll be killed. America is a second chance. America is a life a

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man builds. So I ask you to give him back to his family. Give him back to his son. Give him what he has fought and worked for. A place in this country. FLOE Now I won’t meet my quota. My bonus is gone. Six thousand dollars. Next review? Forget it. My kid needs braces. We’re scraping by. You think I like admitting that? But I believe in doing it right. My grandparents did it right, came from Brazil, legally, and waited their turn. Those who do it right deserve the American Dream. They earned it. We can’t take everyone. There are too many. We have to draw the line somewhere. We have to uphold the system, or it falls apart. I’m not proud of every call I make, but I know this, the system isn’t perfect, but it’s all we’ve got. FLOE exits offstage. So... that’s it? I’m out.

AURORA SEBASTIAN

AURORA You’re comin’ home!... Babe? SEBASTIAN Home. Yeah... Home. Bond’s twelve/ ...Twelve? Thousand. That’s not/ no/ We’ll sell the car. We need the car.

GRACE AURORA GRACE AURORA SEBASTIAN AURORA

SEBASTIAN You got twelve grand underneath the bed?

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GRACE It’s a bond. They want you... waiting. Figure it out. Or he stays. The next step is Individual Hearing. A faint ticking begins. GRACE Bond is a coin flipped in the dark. It glints, promises, then disappears. No one sees it land. The people who should be here vanish while it spins. Every time it slips through my fingers, I carry a piece of that failure. And when luck finally surfaces, it only hurts more. AURORA When Sebastian came back, he coughed and coughed. We found feathers in his lungs. We raced him to the hospital. I hear it still, even when it’s quiet. The cage rattles. I hold our boy, Justin, a little longer. Sebastian drifts across the wheel. Now we sleep in the car. Every night, the car. GRACE God only finds me when I can’t hold it anymore. This job... I saved him, not my daughter. I wasn’t there to catch her, to hold her, to be what she needed. I trade pieces of my life for someone else’s freedom and still... it is never enough. SEBASTIAN I remember the smell of wood soap, you know? The man who dreamed of flying... he don’t even got a mouth no more. I sit on the mower, and something inside stays behind. With each blade of grass I cut, it’s like maybe I should’ve slipped under it, flown off... disappeared. AURORA I watch Justin sleep. I can’t look away. Sebastian left his shoes at the front door when we sold the house... old brown ones, with ugly buckles. My feet aren’t big enough to fill them. And still, I try. I try to be both mother and father tonight. The ticking rises, faster and louder. GRACE The sun burns. But the cold comes from its teeth. Officers, uniforms bent like rules. Eyes that don’t blink. Teeth sharpen into law. Every street the jaw. Every anthem is in its throat. The gator’s mouth opens. Wider. Wider. What disappears inside is not just one man, one

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woman, one child. It is whole families, histories, whole futures. I stand here. How many mouths does a nation have? How wide can it open before it swallows itself? The alligator’s mouth closes. Swallows everything. Lights out. End of play.

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Jordyn Williams

Visual Arts Wake Forest High School Wake Forest, NC

Ride of Radiance, 2025 Colored pencils on paper

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Samantha Wu

Nonfiction Orange County School of the Arts Santa Ana, CA

What Ripens Slowly The first mango was nearly too soft, its skin freckled brown where fruit had leaned against fruit. My mother presses her thumb into the bruise and smiles— as if proof were sweeter than warning. The kitchen smells of sugar and something faintly sour, the way summer lingers in curtains. The ceiling fan turns a slow halo, its blades clacking as if the air itself had a hinge. She uses a dull knife, handle split where her grip has polished it smooth. “Sharp blades rush,” she says. “Good fruit likes to argue first.” The peel falls in one long ribbon, curling in the sink like gold thread. Light finds her wrist. Juice gathers in her palm and slides along the blue thread of a vein, as if told years ago where to go. She cuts close to the seed, listening with her hands. “Eat before it turns brown.” The fruit opens easily, and something in her eyes softens—recognition or warning, hard to tell. For a long time, I thought love meant anything that refused to rinse off. *** My grandmother peeled mangoes with her nails. She split the skin the way you start a letter you don’t have words for and finished with her fingers, pulp giving up in strings that dried sweet and sticky on her knuckles. She sold the slices from a plastic basin by the road, coin clink, fly buzz, heat that pressed against the body like another skin. “She was good with her hands,” my mother says, but there is a gravity to the sentence that sounds less like praise than weather. In the photograph we keep in the drawer with rubber bands and takeout menus, my grandmother is barefoot. Her blouse is freckled with dots that might be juice, might be rain. Veins rise on her wrist like a map of rivers reluctant to freeze. The horizon behind her is washed out, as if distance had decided to be shy. I imagine the way dust tastes. I imagine sugar finding its way into the lifelines of her palm and staying there longer than it should. Some nights I open that drawer for a reason: tape, scissors, a pen that writes on plastic. Other nights I open it to make sure the photograph is still there, that her mouth is still the kind that keeps its secrets. *** The first time I tried to cut one alone, I pressed

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too hard, impatient to know the inside. The knife slipped and made a neat little exclamation near my thumb. My mother didn’t scold. She tilted my hand under the faucet, the water going pink with juice before it went clear. Then she took the blade and finished the fruit without ceremony. Her cubes were clean and exact. Mine slid off the plate and carried the smell of metal with them. “You’ll learn,” she said to the sink. Later, in the bathroom, I washed until the scent lightened. The mirror steamed. The overhead bulb hummed. My fingers looked longer than they had in the morning, as if the day had added length without asking. I bent closer. The glass made me waver. It did not feel like lying. It felt like water, which shows the truth and still refuses to hold you. *** She told me not to wear white shorts anymore. “Soon,” she said, in the voice she used for weather, long lines of traffic, bills due, other inevitabilities. When soon arrived, she passed me a wrapped box like a small gift we both pretended we wanted. In the bathroom she taught me the order: cold water first, never hot, press and lift, press and lift, do not scrub or it spreads. The stain loosened, traveling through the cloth like a thought changing its mind. Her hands were brisk but careful, the way she handled anything that could break without making a sound. I wanted to ask whether she had been afraid the first time, whether anyone had reached for her wrist and said it was not deep, whether she had hidden evidence or showed it like proof. She was humming. It was not a tune I recognized, but it knew where it was going. That night, with a towel under my hips, I found the quiet noises a house makes when you listen too hard: refrigerator breath, a pipe settling, the fan above the stove turning on by itself and stopping as if it remembered something. My body felt reorganized— weight where there had been air, room where there had been guessing. I tried to measure the space in me with a kind of listening no one had taught me. *** At fourteen I learned the furniture of girls: how arms cross without instruction, how shoulders angle

into permission, how to pull a laugh back before it shows its teeth. In glass, I preferred outlines to faces. I learned which mirrors lied kindly and which told the truth with bad lighting. My mother said I was getting tall. Tall sounds like a compliment until you realize it means visible. Sometimes she looked at me the way she looked at the fruit in the market—thumb pressing lightly for the secret softness only experience names. Once she brushed hair behind my ear and said, “You look like her,” in a tone that meant lineage and warning. That scared me. I did not ask which her. The air carried the answer. *** The kitchen remained fluent when we weren’t. She would call my name without raising her voice, a syllable I knew better than any nickname, and I would come. The knife on the plate. The plate in her left hand. Mangoes sweating on a towel, low sun pooling in the cuts of the board we didn’t admit was a board. “Closer to the seed,” she said, and placed my fingers where the fruit thinned into a wet kind of glass. “Don’t waste the flesh.” The blade found a vein of sweetness and obeyed. When it slipped again—only a shallow blooming this time—she set her thumb over it and waited. “Not deep,” she murmured, which never meant only the cut. We worked facing the window. You could see a strip of sky there and the neighbor’s lemon tree, all green fist and bright coin. She arranged the cubes with the neatness of someone who had learned to make food expected to be looked at. We ate in the tinge of our reflection on the glass. The room kept our shadows. *** Details I remember more clearly than the faces of people from school: - the dim click of the fan chain tapping the light cover; - her bracelet slipping down her wrist when she shook water from her hands; - the way detergent stayed in the fabric of her shirt even after it dried; - the small, pale scar where the oven had kissed her; - the sound the knife made when it touched porcelain—polite, like a cough in church; - our house’s daylight, which always seemed to have a color even when it didn’t. I did not realize these were the things I was choosing as proof. I only knew they stayed when other things didn’t. *** By winter I could cut without wasting much. My slices were uneven but honest. She let me use the

dull knife. Her attention felt like a hand at the small of my back in a crowded place: there and not there, an insistence that said, you are moving, keep going, there is a through line if you keep your feet. Some afternoons, while the rice steamed and the faucet talked to itself, I noticed how she leaned: hips against the counter, head slightly bowed, neck soft in the place where necklaces sit when they are patient. Her blouse stuck to her shoulder blades in a dark shape. I could have drawn it from memory with my eyes closed. I never told her this. Some tendernesses do not know what to do if they are seen. *** We did not argue often, but when we did she cut fruit afterward. The plate slid across the table like an apology that refused grammar. I ate slowly, letting the sweetness insist. She watched, not to make sure I finished, but to make sure I could. The room felt taller on those nights, as if the walls had stood up straighter to listen. Later, the peels in the sink curled like the skins of something outgrown. She left the knife to dry across the ridge of the basin. The steel reflected the window’s rectangle, my bent face, her shoulder moving. If I breathed, the picture shivered. *** She says her hands ache when it rains. She says it the way some people talk about their knees or an old song—evidence of having lived. There is a callus where her ring sits, a notch of sleep along the band. Her halfmoons are honest. When she sleeps on the couch—not often, but sometimes, under television that turns its light down like a polite guest—her fingers curl as if they’re holding a different day. I wonder where the ache stores itself when the weather is clear. *** Sometimes I dream in domestic scale: the refrigerator light, the cool shine of tile, the bruisecolored hour between dinner and the next thing. In those dreams my grandmother sits at our table as if it were always hers. My mother cuts and passes fruit as if time were a circular hallway we keep walking. I am there with my hesitant hands. We do not speak, because we do not need to. Peel, slice, press. The ritual is a language that doesn’t change. I wake with my throat tasting faintly of metal, the way it does after laughter that almost became crying. *** Now the mangoes come nested in tissue from the store, perfumed the way supermarkets train things to be fragrant on schedule. She calls them “too perfect,” pinches the stem end anyway, buys two, buys four. “They finish ripening at home,” she

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says, and the certainty in her voice makes the kitchen feel arranged around her. I stand beside her, matching height more days than not, though I still feel shorter in the stern rooms of morning. The fan keeps time. Her humming finds the line it always finds. I learn the hush of a blade at the exact moment it stops being dangerous and becomes necessary. My wrist mimics hers the way a word can learn two accents and still mean the same. Juice pools along the curve of my palm and slips into the faint seam near my thumb where an older mistake left its whisper. I don’t pull away. My skin learns the temperature of what it carries. She doesn’t correct me. She doesn’t praise me. The silence between us feels salted, capable of keeping something for later. *** After she sleeps, I return for the small work: wipe the counter, turn the knife, run water until the gold lets go. I lift the blade into the light. My face bends along it, long and thin, unfamiliar then suddenly too familiar, as if resemblance could be a trick mirror with perfect intention. Behind my reflection, the lemon tree resets itself into night. A bowl of mangoes waits on the table. Their skins shine like dusk pretending to be fruit. I pick one up. It yields with the soft insistence of something ready to be named. I hold it until my hand smells like afternoons before homework, like my mother’s wrist when she brushes hair from her face, like doubt that did not know its name yet. I set it back. I do not cut it. There are kinds of ripeness you are supposed to witness whole. *** In the morning, the house is cooler. The fan remembers how to be quiet. The bowl on the table holds a different story: one fruit with a new bruise, another freckled into confession. My mother laughs softly when she sees them. “You should have eaten it,” she says, not to scold, not to be right, only because there is a relief in naming what will happen anyway. “It’s going to turn.” I say I will. I don’t say when. She reaches for the knife. Sun comes thin through the blinds and lays itself across her forearm in narrow ladders. The kitchen carries last night’s sugar in the corners. The faucet coughs. The plate clicks. These are the sounds I believe more than dates, more than signatures, more than memory when it wants applause. *** Later, I stand at the window, the glass warm where the light collects in a square. My reflection floats there—thin, doubled by the room behind me— hers moving in the kitchen, mine folding into it. If I tilt my head just so, the two of us become the same

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height. If I breathe, the picture blurs and corrects, blurs and corrects, as if the window were practicing honesty. I do not step closer. I do not step back. The air has that heavy sweetness that means the fruit is almost louder than the room. Somewhere a drawer slides shut. A bracelet lifts and falls. Her voice finds my name and lets it rest in the doorway without insisting. I keep looking. The scene holds: a dull knife drying, a bowl not yet empty, a bruise darkening in the exact shape of a thumb, a house learning what to keep. Between the glass and my skin something continues—slow, private, unarguable—as if ripening were a verb with no past tense. And when the fan decides to speak again, a single click, then another, I stand there and count without finishing.

Sophia Ye

Visual Arts Canyon Crest Academy San Diego, CA

Sleep Between Shifts, 2024 Ceramic clay, and acrylic

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Emma Yeon

Fiction The Bronxville School Foundation Bronxville, NY

The Suburb The day he moved in was a sunny day. Mrs. Moore, who lived across the street, spent the afternoon baking canelés and brought them up his driveway a few minutes after sunset. When she knocked, there was a movement of shadow behind the curtains, and it was late enough that, when the new boy opened the door, he looked like a shadow, even in light. For a moment, she studied him in silence. His age was indiscernible at first—his stance, it seemed, was far older than his face—but Mrs. Moore had a child in the ninth grade, and, bringing her son’s features to mind, she concluded that the new boy looked about that age. The boy did not greet her, so she moved forward and held the sheet out to him on her palms. “I’m Elodie,” Mrs. Moore said. “I live next door, with my husband, Tom. I have a son about your age, named Caleb. Is your mother home?” The boy shook his head. Before Mrs. Moore could get another word in, he turned on one heel and vanished with Mrs. Moore’s platter. It was white ceramic, adorned with little flowers. She never did get it back. *** In the autumn, the new boy enrolled in the local public school. His academic file had been lost in transit, so the school board made him sit for a series of grade-level placement exams in lieu of a paper record. He scored full marks on every one, save for the one in political science. (Mr. Reyes, the microeconomics teacher, emphatically deemed his essay “over prolix and immature,” and promptly refused him a grade over 90 percent). The school board opted for a holistic placement process, which placed the new boy in the ninth grade. On the first day of class, the English teacher, Miss Hart, had each student sketch where they were from. Some sketched flags, approximations of state borders, gabled houses with picket fences. The new boy sat for a moment, staring at his paper, then drew a single graphite circle in the center of the page. “A planet,” Miss Hart later explained to the rest of the staff at their weekly meeting. “He drew the Earth. Isn’t that wonderful? What a brilliant imagination.”

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She looked around. Mr. Reyes scoffed, staring somewhere beyond her head. At her side, Dr. Whitlock cast a long glance at her face. “That’s wonderful, Coretta,” Dr. Whitlock murmured, and rubbed her shoulder with a palm. “He’s in great hands.” Miss Hart smiled nervously and glanced again at Mr. Reyes. He was still staring somewhere past her. “Thank you,” Miss Hart replied. As Miss Hart and the other teachers would soon learn, the boy was also gifted in other ways. He sat quietly in the center of the room, speaking only when classmates prodded his back to ask questions. Each time, the questioner nodded back wide-eyed at his reply, turning back to their paper with a new and furious clarity. In days, previously uncontrollable students became acutely studious. The new boy never interrupted, never bickered, never missed a class. His peers, more or less, followed suit. Administrators were alarmed at first. The board spent several meetings discussing the risks of disrupting the existing classroom culture. But when the state reported the average examination scores for that year, the secretary made a call that sated all anxiety: The school’s mean had leaped by over 15 percentage points. The superintendent of the district drove in from the city two weeks after graduation to present each department head with a congratulatory spider plant. *** On the first Saturday of the next autumn, Mrs. Moore put on an embroidered sundress and drove three blocks over for her weekend brunch. Every well-to-do mother in the neighborhood was in punctual attendance, and Mrs. Moore was never one to miss. Especially now, of course. The new boy was the talk of the table, and Mrs. Moore had earned a particular reverence as his across-the-street neighbor. “You know,” Mrs. Moore said, adjusting her skirt, “He’s such a good kid. He’s such good friends with my Caleb—I do think they’re good influences on one another.” Mrs. Flores nodded emphatically. “We drove by your street the other day, and they were in your yard

throwing the ball. My husband said that the new boy’s arm is superb! And you know, John was a pitcher back in his time—” “Oh, yes!” Mrs. Turner interrupted. “My Benjamin had the new boy over last week. When he saw our upright, he sat and played Stravinsky’s Petrushka without a bit of sheet music. I swear it! It was magnificent—unbelievable!” Mrs. Moore hummed appreciation, as did Mrs. Flores. “What about you?” Mrs. Moore asked, gesturing to Miss Hart. It was the teacher’s first time attending brunch, and she startled at the question, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. “He’s a bright student,” Miss Hart replied. “All of your boys are.” Mrs. Moore thought about Caleb, brow furrowing. She’d left him at home. He’d been in his room when she’d left the house. Studying, perhaps, or calling friends. She never quite liked checking—and besides, the other mothers in town had advised her to give a boy his space. “How is Dr. Whitlock doing?” Mrs. Turner asked. “I hear he was promoted! I suppose the administration finally noticed his good performance.” Miss Hart startled again, almost like a flinch. “Yes,” she said. “He’s on the board, now.” “Wonderful,” Mrs. Flores laughed. “He’s such a lovely man.” She took another sip of her coffee. Miss Hart stumbled to her feet. “I’m sorry, I’d better be going,” Miss Hart said, dark skin flushed at the cheeks. “I have an appointment at… ah… three o’clock.” Mrs. Moore checked her watch. It was hardly one-fifty. “Okay,” she replied nonetheless. As Miss Hart hurried away, Mrs. Flores put down her cup with a sigh. “It’s a shame she’s not married,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the retreating woman. “She’s such a pretty girl.” *** On the night of the winter solstice, Mrs. Moore pulled the roast out of the oven and realized that sometime between the bell of school’s end and the bell of the oven timer, her son had left the house. He did not respond to her calls, even when she sharpened her voice, and when she finally climbed the stairs to his bedroom, he was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Moore was standing in the center of his bedroom, arms crossed firmly over her chest, when a distant whoop came from the street outside. By the time she had wrenched his window wide enough to throw her head out of the gap, a line of cars was flying past on the road below. They went over the pavement

nose-to-tail, their headlights flashing in the night, hands thrown out of the sunroofs and flailing in the open air. “Caleb!” Mrs. Moore shouted, to no avail. She flew down the stairs and out into the street, halting on the pavement in an apron and slippers. It smelled like hot rubber and car exhaust, and she wanted to pound her fists into the blacktop until they burnt. Slowly, she looked around. The new boy was sitting on his porch stoop with his knees tucked to his chest, watching her. She waved once to him. He stared back. She went back inside. When Caleb came home, his blond hair was windblown and his breath smelled like smoke. He picked at his plate, head bowed. Mrs. Moore sat quietly across from him and wished that he would meet her eyes. “How has the new boy been?” Mrs. Moore asked. “He’s not new anymore,” her son corrected. “And I haven’t seen him much. He’s not on the team, remember?” Mrs. Moore’s lips drew into a thin line. “Who were you with tonight, then?” “The team,” Caleb replied. He prodded at another piece of meat. It fell off his fork halfway to his lips. *** It was a rainy morning in the light of the window. Miss Hart had arrived at school early, as agreed, and the sun crept slowly over her shoes. She was considering leaning forward to knock on the door when a sound of laughter came from the yard. Through the window glass, the world was pale. The flowers were frosted in the planters, and a group of boys was playing on the blacktop. One of them was blond. Miss Hart thought it might be Caleb. The door opened. “Coretta?” Miss Hart started, flashing a smile. “Good morning,” she greeted. Dr. Whitlock filled the threshold like a sudden snow. “When is your first class?” “Eight o’clock.” “Good. You have five minutes, then?” “About that.” “Come in.” She sat. The chair across from Dr. Whitlock’s desk was plush and velvet, pressed flat beneath her by years of use. Miss Hart wondered how many women had sat there before her. How many bodies’ weight, pressing down. “I wanted to ask about the new boy,” Dr. Whitlock said.

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Miss Hart nodded. “Right.” “He’s a compelling case, isn’t he?” Dr. Whitlock sat back, pulled a bottle from beneath his desk. He took a long drought. “What a thing to think about, that boy.” “He’s not in my class anymore—” “Ah, besides the point,” Dr. Whitlock interrupted. “You still know him the best. It’s only winter, yet—you taught him for a year.” Miss Hart listened for the boys in the yard. Had they gone? “I trust your students’ performance will only continue to improve,” Dr. Whitlock said. “Yes,” Miss Hart replied. Dr. Whitlock stood. Miss Hart waited. He didn’t like when she stood too quickly. “You know,” he said, leaning over the arm of her chair, “you’ve done good work, girl. Keep it up, and I’ll make sure the board knows. You’ll be moving up soon enough.” He grinned. His breath was sour in hers. “But don’t go telling anyone about it. You know how word gets around, in this town.” He moved away, back to his desk. Miss Hart waited. “You’d best be going,” Dr. Whitlock said. Miss Hart mumbled her thanks and hurried for the door. *** As the new boy entered his junior year of high school, rumor reported that he was planning on transferring. Why, exactly, was unclear. Some believed his grandmother had fallen ill back in Chicago. Others insisted his father had taken a job in Puerto Rico. Still others reported he’d tested into a preparatory school in southern California. Most mothers dismissed the reports, shrugging them aside with the usual ambivalence. But when, one day, the boy did not attend school, the neighborhood knew that the rumors were true. The boy had not missed a minute of school since he’d first moved in. By the next morning, Ms. Moore pulled open her son’s bedroom blinds to see the whole neighborhood in front of the new boy’s house, tossing crumpled envelopes and ripe fruit onto his doorstep. She recognized many of them—Mrs. Flores and Mrs. Turner from her Saturday brunches, Miss Hart and Mr. Reyes from the high school. And there, too, were the children, tangled in a separate mass, huddled a short distance from the adults. When had their limbs gotten so long? She didn’t recall them being so tall. A blond boy clambered up onto the new boy’s porch. She knew that boy. It was her boy. Mrs. Moore threw open the window and shouted,

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“Caleb! Where are you going?” Caleb ignored her, or maybe he couldn’t hear her over the growing clamor of the crowd. More people were still arriving, hoisting all sorts of persuasive paraphernalia: yellow apples, shards of split wood, reams of paper, baseball bats. Caleb took two steps forward. “Hey!” he shouted, and rapped his knuckles against the door. The hinges gave way, so easily that, as they did so, Mrs. Moore wondered how they hadn’t already fallen in. “Are you in there?” There was no movement in the window. For a moment, the crowd fell still, staring over Caleb’s head into the threshold beyond. Mrs. Moore squinted and pitched further out the gap. Inside, the foyer was blanketed with thick dust. The drywall was marred with deep gashes, like a storm had blown through and left it in ruin. Just within, strewn at her son’s feet, were shards of white ceramic. *** Caleb turned to the crowd. “He’s gone,” he said. Then, louder: “He’s gone!” Miss Hart closed her eyes as panic flared through the adults. Startled mothers reached for children that were no longer at their sides. “He’s gone!” “How so?” “Where could he have — ” “— need to find him!” “It’s already too late!” Where was Caleb? Somewhere in the stir, Miss Hart had lost him. Was he somewhere in that faraway jumble of children? “Well, then,” Benjamin Turner blurted into the din. He was flanked by the rest of the baseball team— which meant Caleb was likely behind him, somewhere. “Good riddance!” “How could you say that?” Mrs. Turner demanded. She hurried forward, trying to grasp her son’s arm, but he jerked away from her, retreating into the crowd. “He’s the best thing this town ever produced!” Dr. Whitlock insisted. Slowly, Miss Hart turned to face him. “Is it?” she said. She thought of the spider plant on Dr. Whitlock’s desk, of the flowers frosting in the schoolyard. Dr. Whitlock looked surprised, as if he hadn’t expected her voice. “Yes,” he said. “Is it?” Dr. Whitlock’s lip trembled. Miss Hart expected rage, but his voice was low when he replied. “Yes. You should know that, girl—” He didn’t finish his sentence, because Miss Hart was then upon him, beating him first with her palms,

then with her fists, then with a flaming shaft of wood someone threw down at her feet. She beat him until his nose was crumpled red, and then again and again until everything was. *** “Caleb!” Mrs. Moore cried into the violence. The crowd had erupted into a pyre below, adults standing aghast as their children scattered in all directions. She leaned a little further out the window. “Caleb!” By the time she fell out and onto the sidewalk below, no one noticed, because her house was already ablaze. *** Somewhere on the edge of town, a boy inhaled the smell of burning. He did not look back as he departed. If luck would have it, he would reach the next suburb by mid-morning.

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Amelia Yuan

Nonfiction Castilleja School Palo Alto, CA

Absolution From Home 床前明月光疑是地上霜舉頭望明月低頭思故鄉 — 李白, “静夜思”1 When the daughter leaves for America, she steps onto Wisconsin frost and wet mulch a mother. In one hand, a brown, beaten suitcase, bought for travel from Beijing to Chongqing, intended for train rides and dusty auto rickshaws. In the other, a skin-smooth ticket, used and pressed tightly between fingers now only for comfort. PEK spells out an origin: 5:51 a.m., a time of rebirth. A mother to chemistry textbooks and midnight job applications, to her own mā and a Sichuan apartment begging for cash. She slips the paper into the inner pocket of her coat and breathes in an air her family has never tasted. *** Salmon are anadromous—meaning they are born in freshwater, migrate to the ocean to grow, and then return to the same freshwater to spawn. On a road trip through Oregon when I was eleven, we stopped by the Bonneville Dam to see the king salmon on their upstream journey. I remember my cheek smushed against the window, eyes squinting through the water for the dark shadows of upcoming fish. I was short enough then to see the pinkish-green hue on their underbellies when they swam close to the glass. If I pressed up onto my toes, I could see the sunlight sparking off silver specks lined along their scales. My mom took a video as I watched their tails fight the current, propelling them so quickly you would hardly know they were swimming upstream. I knew it was biological, but it seemed desperate, too, to make that return home, to make a life that outlasts their own. How cruel was nature to make even instinct a challenge? *** When the daughter becomes a mother the second time, she finds herself in a bleached room, holding a swaddle of pink that mars the white expanse of sheets. She does not know what to think. Outside

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the hospital window, oak trees are dropping their acorns onto the ground already littered with rustcolored leaves. Two hours ago, it was Halloween, but she waited, clinging to a strange fear that her daughter would be born a witch or something other. On the drive to the hospital, the sedan sped past sidewalks with children stumbling around as ghosts and astronauts and dinosaurs. She wonders what her daughter will become. She tastes names on her tongue in two dimensions, feeling for some kind of translation between the oriental brushstrokes and American alphabet, some denomination that can enter and exit seamlessly between two worlds. She thinks of her husband’s family name: 袁—yuán—meaning money, or robe. She thinks of the cashiers at Safeway who barely move their lips when speaking. Would they be able to form that pucker, to pay tribute to the tradition that family always comes before the individual? Her mā is waiting for something to tell the aunts and cousins. She does not want her daughter to become a joke, so she picks something that starts with an easy letter, A, from the Redwood City Public Library’s book of baby names. In America, she knows, the sun sets and rises on the individual self, and the only hands that matter are your own. *** At school, I learned that salmon use their sense of smell to navigate to the place where they were born. At school, we gravitate towards the same desks day after day, always sitting in the same places around the room. There is some fear that holds us captive, that keeps us fixed to the order we created by chance on the first day of class. I don’t believe in fate or flashcards, but this is what I do know. In Chongqing summers, smoke clings to sweat, and the air tickles your nose with sun-baked grime and languid cement. Still, behind my grandma’s apartment, it smells like white champaca and jasmine from the thin row of trees. We pay street vendors along the sidewalks five yuan for a small bunch of white blossoms sewn together with red thread to mask the motorcycle smog. Once a month at home, my mom meticulously spritzes the rows of clothes draped neatly on hangers in her closet with jasmine perfume. I count how many

spritzes it takes before the next trip back, the next closing of distance, however temporary. Time and distance, they run in parallel. Shortening one doesn’t change the length of the other, and moving back and forth won’t uncover an intersection. I know this, too. Even in the same river, it is impossible for the salmon to turn back around. Still, I wonder: How many spritzes before this home isn’t good enough anymore, and she wishes she could follow the sillage back. To return, against the tide of my own English-hugging tongue and all the currents humming of better opportunity and freedom. In the right shades, or the wrong light, I think that freedom can look too much like loneliness. And where there is loneliness, there is never a home. *** When the mother named her daughter, her mā did too. One for the family, her mā said, a name that easily twists from the whole—袁思嘉; yuán sī jiā—into the intimate—嘉嘉; jiā jiā. Her daughter walks for the first time, then talks for the first time, and in the videos, the Chinese name echoes among laughter and praise. Still, on the first walk to day care, she practices: Amelia, Amelia, Amelia. Over and over, a cold marble rolling around her tongue, a mantra pressed into her daughter’s ear, and hopefully her brain will remember it too. Amelia, she tells the receptionist. Back at the house, she eats a bowl of plain jasmine rice. She is alone at the dining table the way you can only know alone when you’ve become a mother. It is different from the way you can only know alone when you have a mā too far away to remind you that you, too, are a daughter. *** I began swimming competitively when I was five, morphing my body into a medium that can succeed in an element it was only intended to survive. I hate my shoulders always, but especially when they press too widely out of the straps of my dresses. I admire my legs sometimes, when they can push my fingers to kiss the touchpad a little faster. In the water, light refracts differently, and I use it to stretch my skin to a shade of tan far away from my mom’s pale alabaster. I live my life in constant attunement to time. A decade of racing in the pool is a lifetime of knowing the length of a second by the tension in your ligaments, of measuring minutes with your breaths and your bones. By definition I live in constant denial. Because on birthdays, I cannot trace through blank words like I love you with my lips. Because though I am growing up and my mom is growing old, I think I am the only one who is changing. Because I can feel the acute pain of passing seconds in the muscles of my forearms and still throw away her years of Pacific-sized absence from her family, still pull more minutes of English from

her mouth when I can tell she is aching for our mother tongue. I cannot stop refusing the passage of time and pretending days are longer than they are. Maybe it is not that I’m moving too slow, but too fast. Not against the current, but with it. I am in action, in flight, in chase. But I am never in return. *** When the mother first notices gray hairs in the mirror, she takes to them with tweezers, attempting to pull them out one by one. She spots a few in the back and asks her daughter to help pluck them. It becomes a monthly ritual, sitting in front of the bluish glow of the TV after dinner, child fingers searching for hairs like chickens pecking for worms. When that is not enough, she sets out to Walgreens for boxes of dye, and teenage hands encased in crumpling plastic gloves smother her hair with metallic-scented chemicals. She tells the bathroom mirror that even at 82, her mā has never had a gray hair, has never known any dyes except for the dark stain of soy sauce on pork belly. Her daughter says she wants a balayage with light brown highlights before college. Now in their heads, they have two different dreams. The mother imagines the same California sun, the school ten minutes down the road, visits back home on the weekends and calls from the dorm every night. She doesn’t know that her daughter cannot wait to get away, pictures living with snow for the first time and enough distance for a five-hour flight. That her daughter hopes to call a new place home. The dye is beginning to set in and prickle her nose when she breathes. She shuts her eyes and pretends she is in that old hair salon where her mā took her to get a fresh cut and perm before boarding a plane. *** I still remember the bee that landed on my bare foot on a Thursday at swim practice when I was seven years old. It stung me right below the knuckle of my big toe. The bee, with its insides pulled outside by its stinger lodged in my foot, the hum in its wings erratically slowing down to stillness, crumpled body flung onto the pool deck and its last defense used in vain on me. How I learned that my faith in the largeness of my own life is because I’ve watched smaller ones end. I think that was the first time I knew I had killed. When we visited the Bonneville Dam, the last sign I read informed me that king salmon are programmed to die after spawning. Their lives are a terminal round trip, beginning and ending in the same river. After the great distances they migrate and every battle against the current, their total displacement is still zero, all so they can leave the next generation with the right start. Nature is always making the final act of giving one that also takes.

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I don’t want my mom to die in America. I don’t want my mom to die in America alone. I often picture the feebleness of those lives, faltering wings and sinking silver bodies, and she is always present, always feeling too small. I try to understand their departure, however pathetically, because I have no God in my life to segregate living from death, only my own attempts at delineating a before and after. A before, and an after, and a moment in between. There is a moment where I became a daughter, and a daughter became a mother, and home lost itself. That is the first time I really killed. *** When the mother’s mā is gone, she shrinks. In her grief, she becomes a daughter again. The funeral home holds the ashes in a mahogany box in storage for two years. When she can finally return, they move it into the granite vault buried among wet dirt and moss, next to her father’s, echoes of a service she never made it to. It is sealed shut with two swipes of mortar and a polished slab engraved with a phoenix, perpetually in the midst of rising. I look at my mom’s face as she examines the feathers in the wings and see her mother in the lines creasing out from the corners of her eyes. I think, in death, home becomes undefined by time or distance. I think, today, the sky is so, so blue.

1 Translation of the epigraph: At the foot of my bed, moonlight I wonder if it is frost on the ground. Lifting my head I gaze at the bright moon Bowing my head I think of home. — Lǐ Bái, “Quiet Night Thought”

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Jaxon Zepel

Film M408 Professional Performing Arts High School New York, NY

Deer Trails, 2025 Narrative, 8 min., 7 sec.

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Yan Zhang Ars Poetica I. I’ve been here before. Look: the road folds into the next one, the domestic nesting within industry’s soot-soft breath. Five dumpsters, neatly aligned, mist rotten vegetables into the air, yesterday’s stir-fry radiating oil from the windows along the first floor. Stacked steel piping softens the piles of red bricks they crush across the way. Sometimes I blink to be sure I am seeing the same street as the man dragging a spitting hose across the grid of concrete in front of me, and the girl adjusting her ponytail in her bike mirror— we touch shadows as I pass. Your presence frays the edges of the afternoon, turning sunlight into memory, fogging my neck. II. I tell nobody about the street. Vegetables gone rotten, birds chattering through the blare of cicadas. Herb tea. AirPods. Mosquito repellent. Just within earshot, I wait. III. People pass. They could ask what I’m writing, but they don’t. I want to stop them, say This is a poem. Not the street, but the cloud flowering into a storm above us, ready to wrestle buds from the trees.

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Poetry Hangzhou Foreign Languages School Hangzhou, China

Jessica Zheng

Visual Arts Irvine High School Irvine, CA

Who Am I?, 2024 Gouache on paper

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Cici Zhu

Design Polytechnic School Pasadena, CA

Movable tech and art lab: scenarios, 2024 Pencil on paper, Procreate, CamScanner

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About

YoungArts

About YoungArts YoungArts is a national organization that identifies exceptional young artists, amplifies their potential, and invests in their lifelong creative freedom. Entrance into this prestigious organization starts with a highly competitive application for talented artists ages 15–18, or grades 10–12, in the United States that is judged by esteemed discipline-specific panels of artists through a rigorous adjudication process. YoungArts award winners go on to receive lifelong support from the organization, including opportunities for funding, creative and professional development, and community building. With more than 23,000 award winners named since 1981, YoungArts boasts an intergenerational and interdisciplinary network of artists who create and collaborate throughout the country and across the globe. Past YoungArts award winners include Daniel Arsham, Terence Blanchard, Camille A. Brown, Timothée Chalamet, Viola Davis, Amanda Gorman, Denyce Graves, Jennifer Koh, Tarell Alvin McCraney, Andrew Rannells, Desmond Richardson and Hunter Schafer. For more information, visit youngarts.org. Join the conversation Instagram @youngarts YouTube @youngarts Facebook /youngartsfoundation

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Notable Winners Daniel Arsham

Jon Batiste

Terence Blanchard

Camille A. Brown

Timothée Chalamet

Gerald Clayton

Viola Davis

Nicole Eisenman

Allegra Goodman

Amanda Gorman

Denyce Graves

Jennifer Koh

Sarah Lamb

Tarell Alvin McCraney

Jason Moran

Eric Owens

Billy Porter

Andrew Rannells

Desmond Richardson

Elizabeth Roe

Hunter Schafer

Kerry Washington

Vanessa Williams

Chris Young

1999 Visual Arts†

2013 Theater

1985 Writing *

1998 Dance*†

1987 Theater †

2017 Design

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2005 Jazz

2002 Jazz*†

2015, 2016 Writing

1999 Theater †

1997 Theater †

1994 Theater †

1980 Classical Music†

1983 Theater

1981 Voice†

1993 Jazz†

1986 Dance*†

1981 Theater

1997 Dance*

1983 Visual Arts

1994 Classical Music*

1988 Voice†

2000 Classical Music*†

2003 Voice*†

Notable Guest Artists Derrick Adams

Debbie Allen

Germane Barnes

Mikhail Baryshnikov

Ignacio Berroa

Ron Carter

Ayodele Casel

Misty Copeland

Lisa Fischer

Renée Fleming

Marika Hughes

Bill T. Jones

Naeem Khan

José Parlá

Rosie Perez

Sir Salman Rushdie

Anastasia Samoylova

Paula Scher

Laurie Simmons

Jeanine Tesori

Hank Willis Thomas

Mickalene Thomas

B.D. Wong

Jeffrey Zeigler

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2026 Guest Artists Chip Abbott Dance Coach

Mahogany Browne Writing Guest Artist

Mariam Adam Classical Music Guest Artist

Daveed Buzaglo Voice Discipline Coordinator, 2012 Voice

Derrick Adams Interdisciplinary Guest Artist, YoungArts Trustee

India Carney Theater and Voice National Selection Panel, 2011 Voice & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts

Tehillah Alphonso Voice Coach, 2015 & 2016 Voice Luciano Antonino Film Actor Marie Arago Photography National Selection Panel Leticia Bajuyo Visual Arts National Selection Panel Chair Kate Baker Voice National Selection Panel Germane Barnes Design National Selection Panel Willa Bennett Writing Guest Artist Jonathan Beyer Voice Guest Artist Iram Parveen Bilal Film National Selection Panel Deborah Birnbaum Voice Guest Artist Doug Blush Film Guest Artist, 1984 Film, YoungArts Trustee Jonathan Bowens Film Guest Artist (Crew) Camille A. Brown Florence Stern Dance Guest Artist, 1997 Dance & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts

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Dejha Carrington Curator Devin Caserta Visual Arts Discipline Coordinator, 2006 Visual Arts Marianela Castro Voice Accompanist Christopher Castellani Writing National Selection Panel Chair, 1990 & 1992 Writing Max Chernin Theater National Selection Panel, 2008 Theater Victoria Collado Writing Guest Artist Anthony Collins Film Guest Artist (Crew)\ Melissa Cullens Design National Selection Panel Tanya Darby Jazz National Selection Panel Priya Darshini Voice Guest Artist Marshall Davis Jr. Dance Coach Ana de Archuleta Voice Guest Artist Rick Delgado Film Guest Artist, 1992 Film

Alaman Diadhiou Dance Guest Artist, 2016 Dance & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts Isabella Dilla Film Actor Brandon Victor Dixon Theater Guest Artist, 1999 Theater Laura Donohue Voice Guest Artist Clinton Edward Dance Discipline Coordinator Brian Ellison Photography National Selection Panel Wayne Escoffery Jazz National Selection Panel Diana Eusebio Design Discipline Coordinator, 2016 Design & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts Joe Farnsworth Jazz Guest Artist Annette Felder Design National Selection Panel Daniela Felder Design Guest Artist Rebecca Fisher Design Guest Artist Victor Giraldez Voice Accompanist Rudi Goblen Interdisciplinary Guest Artist Marjorie Grevious Curriculum Guest Artist Dave Guy Jazz Guest Artist Isaac Harlan Theater Accompanist H. Adam Harris Curriculum Guest Artist

Rena Heinrich Theater National Selection Panel Anthony Hemingway Film Guest Artist Rosie Herrera Dance National Selection Panel Chair Reina Hidalgo Dance Coach MaryAnn Hu Theater National Selection Panel Chair McClenty Hunter Jazz National Selection Panel Javon Jackson Jazz Guest Artist, 1983 Jazz Cat Jimenez Photography National Selection Panel Chair Christina Johnson Dance Coach Virginia Johnson Dance National Selection Panel Katherine Jolly Voice National Selection Panel Kanniks Kannikeswaran Voice Guest Artist Vidita Kanniks Voice Coach Mitch Kaplan Writing Guest Artist Tommy Kha Photography National Selection Panel Yashua Klos Visual Arts National Selection Panel Autumn Knight Interdisciplinary Guest Artist Jennifer Koh Classical Music Guest Artist, 1994 Classical Music & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts

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Amanda Krische Curriculum Guest Artist, 2012 Dance & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts Kari Landry Classical Music National Selection Panel Pascal Le Boeuf Classical Music National Selection Panel Chair, 2004 Jazz Quil Lemons Photography Guest Artist Conway Liao Design Guest Artist Esther Lin Writing National Selection Panel Yvonne Lin Design National Selection Panel Chair Miguel Luciano Visual Arts Guest Artist Jeremy Manasia Jazz National Selection Panel Chair Dr. Ron McCurdy Jazz Guest Artist Michael McElroy Theater National Selection Panel, 1985 Theater, YoungArts Trustee Alex Mediate Photography Discipline Coordinator, 2016 Photography Hollis Meminger Film National Selection Panel Chair Jessica Meyer Classical Music National Selection Panel Aaron Miller Classical Music Discipline Coordinator, 1998 Classical Music Andrea Mogck Anthropologie Design Guest Artist Christopher K. Morgan Dance National Selection Panel Dr. Joan Morgan Writing Guest Artist, YoungArts Trustee

Sam Moyer Visual Arts Guest Artist Nicole Mujica Theater Discipline Coordinator Raina Murnak Voice Guest Artist Keshav Nelavai Voice Accompanist Tracey Newsome Anthropologie Design Guest Artist Brian Potts Dance Accompanist Steve Prince Visual Arts National Selection Panel Marcus Quiniones Theater, Voice Coach Marty Quinn Voice Accompanist Noel Quiñones Writing Guest Artist Christian Reátegui Jazz Discipline Coordinator Jeremy Reger Voice Accompanist Christell Roach Writing Discipline Coordinator, 2015 Writing Aurora Robson Visual Arts Guest Artist Ignacio Rosado Classical Music Arranger, 2025 Classical Music Anastasia Samoylova Photography Guest Artist Chris Sampson Voice National Selection Panel Chair Reid Schlegel Design Guest Artist Sasie Sealy Film National Selection Panel

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Jean Shin Visual Arts Guest Artist, 1990 Winner in Theater & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts, YoungArts Trustee

Michael Benjamin Washington Film, Theater Guest Artist, 1997 Theater & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts

Franklin Sirmans Visual Arts Guest Artist

Kristina Wong Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Jermaine Spivey Dance Coach, 1998 Dance

Kennedy Yanko Aon Guest Artist, Visual Arts

Lane Michael Stanley Writing National Selection Panel

Susan Zhang Classical Music National Selection Panel

Risa Steinberg Dance Coach Daniel Strange Voice Accompanist Grace Talusan Writing National Selection Panel Rosanna Tavarez Dance National Selection Panel Norman Teague Design Guest Artist Noelle Théard Photography Guest Artist Dr. Nadhi Thekkek Dance Coach David Thomson Curriculum Guest Artist Stewart Thorndike Film National Selection Panel Cristy Trabada Film Discipline Coordinator, 2016 Film Yara Travieso Interdisciplinary Guest Artist, 2005 Dance Anna Tsouhlarakis Visual Arts National Selection Panel Noriko Ueda Jazz Guest Artist Guillermo Ursini Film Guest Artist (Crew) *as of 1/3/2026

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Special Thanks to Educators YoungArts would like to acknowledge the following educators, named by the 2026 award winners. We can only do the work we do to identify, recognize and award outstanding students in the arts with the support and effort of educators, teachers, instructors, coaches, homeschoolers and arts practitioners. Beth Abaravich Jamey Aebersold Hananie Albert Galina Alexandrova Boris Allakhverdyan Ariel Allal Kris Allen Megan Allen Sahar Al-Sawaf Carl Althoff Bradford Anderson Jason Anderson Maggie Anderson Robert Apostle Toby Appel Sophie Arbuckle Pamela Arrieta Elizabeth Aureden Grant Babbitt Wonhee Bae Megan Bailey Katia Bakhtiyarova Jana Ballard Jean-Paul Balmat Cory Barnette Amy Barston Lacey Basgier Viktor Basis Jonathan Bass Jon Bassett Daniel Bates Margaret Batjer Veronica Bell Melinda Benham Karen Bennett Kimberley Bentley Ian Berg Andrew Berinson Charles Berlin Oscar Bettison Gianni Bianchini Arnor Bieltvedt Sarah Blackman Al Blackstone Teresa Blume Barry Blumenfeld Hans Boepple Lia Booth

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Paige Borowski Kaitlin Botts Vonda K. Bowling Margaret Boyd Susan Brandt Terrence Brewer Mary Brienza Kamilah Briscoe Duane Broburg Donald Brown Sheila Browne Darren Buck Nicole Burko Todd Burroughs Vicky Bussert Valentine Byrne Wha Kyung Byun Matthew Callahan Andrea Cameron Nigel Campbell Ana Campos Nick Canellakis Dornell Carr Gilbert Castellanos Joel Castillo Salvatore Champagne Elizabeth Chang Tim Chang Xiao Chen Sherry Cheng Yuanan Cheng Christina Cheon Carol Cheung Kathleen Cheung Margaret Chidwick Christine Choi Kyung-sun Choi Rufus Choi Seungho Choi Yousun Chung Bill Church Peter Cirelli Victor Clark Michael Clemente Tim Coffman Jeremy Collins Jerry Compere Therese Conte

Paul Contos Andrew Copper Joe Corrnett Kimberly Costanza Melinda Cotten Jacob Craig John-Henry Crawford Nicole Croy Ashleigh Cummins Joe Cypressi Craig Dale Darren Dalton Elsie Dang John Daniel’s Per Danielsson Joe Davidian Viviane Davilla Bryan Davis Joshua Davis Paul Davis Troy Davis Christopher De Leon Saundra DeAthos-Meers Emily Defoe Todd DelGiudice Lindsey Della - Serra Rosemary Demott Kyle Denman Ellen Depasquale Gloria dePasquale Danielle DeTiberus Sam Dillon Summer Disher Ethan Dong Elaine Douvas Runqiao Du Sean Dugan Alyson Dutemple JB Dyas Dean Eaves Tylen Einweck Amir Eldan Michael Eliran Cindy Ellis Ryan Ellis Joshua Elson Andrew Elsten Gabe Evens

Eric Ewazen Sarah Ewing Leo Eylar Mike Fahie Jean Hugues Farey Tim Fath Conor Fegan Bart Feller Laura Fernandez Victoria Fernholz Sam Fischer Caroline Fleet Emily Forrester Jordan Fox Jason Fraticelli Joe Freuen Matt Friedman Laura Frye Ying Fu Margaret Funkhouser Elizabeth Gallagher Meenakshi Ganesan Jim Gasior Julie Geen Francisco Gella Gail Giewont Joseph Gilman G Giraldo Alan Goidel Michael Gordon Amy Green Brian Griffin Carmen Griffin Henry Gronnier Kandis Gumbs Troy Gunter Stephanie Gustafson Scott Gwinnell Jonathan Haas Alex Hahn Chaz Hall Rutledge Hammes Drew Hansen Lee Harrington Katelyn Harris Stephen Harris Bonnie Harrison Beth Webb Hart

Kathryn Hartgrove Marea Haslett Rebecca Hauth-Schmid Marshall Hawkins Artis Henderson Suzette Henry Gonzalo Hernandez Troy Herring Stephanie Hetman Madison Hicks Spencer Hile Asher Hinton Terence Hobdy Mark Hoffman Regina Hoffman Colin Hogan Adam Holzman Michael Horton Peter Horvath Marget Howard Charlotte Hu Yi-Fang Huang Kara Huber Chin-Cheng Hung Scott Hunt Wynne Huo Mikhail Ilyin Sherry Insley Vani Iswara Ashley Jackson Zoran Jakovcic Simon James Kayla Jang Erik Jekabson Wendy Jenkins Khullip Jeung Jennifer Jo Amanda Jones Courtney Jones Daland Jones Kevin Jones Maggie Jones Michael Jones James Joseph Simon Juny Jung Courtney Kaiser-Sandler Dr.Yoheved Kaplinsky Randy Kapralick Lavanya Karthikeyan Oliver Keane Charles Pat Keith Liam Keller Floyd Kellogg Joseph Kemper Yumi Kendall

Kamau Kenyatta Alla Khaniashvili Charlie Kim Dr. Sarah Kim Hae-Jin Kim Hando Kim Hwieun Kim Jiwon Kim Joohyun Kim Minjae Kim Nan Kim Pauline Kim Yoon Jeun Kim Yousun Kim Elaine Kimble Davis King Nathan King Taylor Kingston Danielle Knox Ron Kobayashi Jonathan Koh Sarah Koo Alexander Korsantia Aiwen Kovalev Valentin Kovalev Hitomi Koyama David Krauss Sam Krausz Jonathan Kreisberg Kevin Krentz Emily Kuhn Tawnya Kuzia Ohtae Kwon Martin Labazevitch Peter LaBerge Dale Lam Judy Lam Jodie Langel Derrick Lawrence Erica Lazure Hyunju Lee Lexi Lee Su Yeon Lee Wonki Lee Yena Lee Yujeong Lee Jenny Letner Matthew Lewis Dan Li Ollie Liddell Gunta Liepina-Miller Tova Lile Reb Limerick Brenda Lin Joseph Lin

Carlton Liu Yunzi Liu Michael Logan Zane Logan Tim Lokiec Marina Lomazov Frank Lopez Sheridan Loyd Jie Lu Ning Lu Miguel Luciano Hannah Ludwig Melissa Lugo Fiona Lummis Nancy Lynee-Woo Mark Lyon Peter Mahtani Rachel Maiorano Steven Malafis Jeremy Manasia William Mandelbaum Jessica Manners Edgar Mariano Devin Marsh Carrie Marshall Deborah Mason Cody Matson Jessica Matthews Barbara Mattingly Jessica Matuozzi Alan Mautner Harry Maxon Amber Mayberry Bethany Mayo Brice Mccasland Drew McClellan Jamond Mccoy Jamie McCulloch Abby McDowell Lindsey McFarlane Karyna McGlynn Lauren McMercury Alex Mediate Joe Medina Ryan Meehan Caitlin Mehrtens Paul Meland Amy Menas Guadalupe Mendez Amanda Mendoza Deborah Milligan Catherine Min Sarah Misko Donovan Mitchell James Moran

Anthony Morigerato Kathy Morris Jai Kishore Mosalikanti Malavi Mudigonda Willie Murillo Dimitri Murrath Josh Murray Victoria Mushkatkol Yoshikazu Nagai Elaine Neeley Anuradha Nehru Ayako Neidich Mary Nessinger Mark Nevers Curtis Newson Vera Ninkovic Aki Nishiguchi Christie Nold Ronan Noone Andrew Norbeck Arshad Norwood Fednikki Nozistene Lorraine Nubar Paige Oden Caili O’Doherty Lydia O’Donnell Jayce Ogren Dr. Eun Ju Vivianna Oh Dwight Okamura Kevin Olson Dan O’Reilly-Rowe Aaron Orullian Ayako Oshima Marina Osipova Mark Ostow Jamie Ousley Ulysses Owens Jr. Dan Pacheco HaeSun Paik Liz Palmer Rama Pantula Greg Parente Dan Park Steve Park Charles Parker Kasumi Parker Wendi Parker Ricardo Partida Matthew Parunak Natasha Pasternak Lauren Pastorek Kelly Pate Man Lai Peckham Philip Pelkington Madeline Pena

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Marlene Pena-Marin Charnele Pendarvis Romero Kelli Pennington DeShona Pepper-Robertson Megan Peralta Raul Perdomo Manny Perez Carlos Pettigrew Jonah Pierre Aaron Pike Junko Pinkowski Sawyer Player Kyle Pleasant Zvi Plesser Goranka Poljak-Hoy Paul Posnak Bindu Pratap Awadagin Pratt Andrea Preston David Price Jean Prokott Ashley Pruitt Guru Padmini Radhakrishnan Ganesh Rajagopalan Johnny Ramos Vincent Ramos Cassidy Reigel Andrew Reiss Karl Resnik John Reynolds Pablo Rieppi Joyce Riley Sara Roberts Kate Robertson Annabelle Robinson Jesse Robinson Gabriel Robles Carol Rodland Christopher Rodriguez Sachi Rodriguez Jeff Rogers Chris Rogerson Alan Rossi Lindsay Rotter Vladimir Rumyantsev Greg Ryan Kerri Ryan Samantha Ryan-Ferry Susan Ryoo Nazgul Ryskulova Shinn Tamara Salkin Yamarys Salomon-Bermudez Sahasra Sambamoorthi Sue Sampson-Dalena Stephen Scarpulla

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Sharon Schaller Mary Ellen Schauber Steven Schrag Jane Schranze Monica Schroeder Eric Scortia Brett Scott Pedro Sena Crescent Seo Eliot Seppa Ann Setzer Maria Shah Parul Shah Dylan Shapiro Manjari Sharma Sandra Shen Erin Sherry Youjin Shin Oliver Shipley Dustin Shirk Theresa Shovlin Ana Silva Leah Silva Nancy Simmons Arri Simon Janine Simon Erin Simón Gregory Sinacori Liz Sinn Jeremy Siskind Anita Sivaraman Janaki Sivaraman Greg Skaff Nathan Skinner Marty Skoble Jeanne Slater Matt Slocum Boris Slutsky Victor Smalley Patricia Smith Thomas Smith Elaine Smith Purcell Adam Smyla Gregory Snyder Anne Sobala Guru Dr. Divyasena Somanna Hyojin Song Jeddie Sophronius Giovanna Sorondo Yusha Sorzano Steven Spooner Anupama Srivastava Rachel St. Marseille Jeffrey Stafford Leah Stahl

Sheryl Staples Sasha Starcevich Peter Stark Jerry Stawski Jasmine Steadman Jacob Stebel Taylor Steele Cyndi Steele-Harrod Rick Steil Liza Stepanova Sally Stephenson Jenn Stewart Robert Stout Michael Stratechuk Natalie Strum Andy Sturgeon Ted Sugata Chris Sullivan Ian Sullivan Benjamin Sutin Lauren Swan Judith Switek Anne Talman Ira Taxin William Taylor Marina Ten Stephanie Teo Pragnya Thamire Michael Thomas Shannon Thomas Kennedy Thomas Johnson Conor Thompson Aaron Tolson Damon Tommolino Martha Tonkin Alberto Toro Dre Torres Regina Torres Elbert Tsai Tina Tsai Michael Tseitlin Jennifer Turbyfill Ogechi Ukazu Danbi Um Maitejosune Urrechaga Manuel Valera Justin Valla Sivagami Vanka Radhamani Varadhachary Hector Vasquez Michael Vasquez Snigdha Venkataramani Evangelos Viglis Hugh David Waddell Michael Waldrop

Andrea Wallace Jessica Ward-Wells Tim Warfield Susan Warner Kevin Washington Eugene Watanabe Andrew Watkins Aaron Weatherbie Morgan Weed Zhao Wei David Werfelmann James Westfall Summyr Whaley Joseph Wiggan Peter Wiley Dan Wilkins Troy Williams Austin Wilson Carol Wincenc Eleanor Wong Stella Xu Dr.Yi-heng Yang Yoon Seok Yeom Jung Won Yoon Chan Ho Yun Don Zentz Stella Zhang Qing Zhao Natalie Zhu Dann Zinn Zoe Zollinger

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National YoungArts Week Supporters

Support for National YoungArts Week is provided by the City of Miami Beach, Cultural Affairs Program, Cultural Arts Council; the Miami-Dade County Tourist Development Council, Miami-Dade County Department of Cultural Affairs and the Cultural Affairs Council, the Miami-Dade County Mayor and Board of County Commissioners; and Miami Downtown Development Authority.

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YoungArts Supporters

Thank you to YoungArts’ most generous donors who make programming throughout the year possible.

1M+

500K-999K

Black Family Philanthropies

Barbara & Amos Hostetter

Michi & Charles Jigarjian / 7G Foundation

100K-499K

Micky and Madeleine Arison Family Foundation

Sarah Arison & Thomas Wilhelm

Berkowitz Contemporary Foundation

50K-99K

Steven & Oxana Marks / Podhurst Orseck, P.A.

Christopher Rim / Command Education

Robert Wennett & Mario Cader-Frech

Support for YoungArts programs is provided by the Miami-Dade County Department of Cultural Affairs and the Cultural Affairs Council, the Miami-Dade County Mayor and Board of County Commissioners.

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Board of Trustees as of December 2025

Sarah Arison, Board Chair Richard Kohan, President of The Board Zuzanna Szadkowski* Secretary Kevin Levingston, Treasurer Derrick Adams Chloe Berkowitz Doug Blush* Hampton Carney Kristy Edmunds Danielle Garno, Esq. Rosie Gordon-Wallace Michi Matter Jigarjian Jason Kraus Steven Marks, Esq. Lauren Matthiesen Michael McElroy* Dr. Joan Morgan Kristina Newman-Scott John J. O’Neil, Esq. José Parlá Glenda Pedroso Deborah Shainfeld Jean Shin* Sandra Tamer Debi Wisch

Trustees Emeritus

Armando M. Codina Meryl Comer Justin DiCioccio Agnes Gund (In Memoriam) John J. Kauffman Dr. Ronald C. McCurdy Dr. Eduardo J. Padrón Desmond Richardson* Marcus Sheridan Richard S. Wagman Maurice M. Zarmati

YoungArts award winner

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Staff

as of December 2025 Clive Chang, President and CEO Regina Moser, Manager, Executive Office Andreina Zama-Diaz, Director, Partnerships & New Initiatives

Advancement Dee Dee Sides, Vice President, Advancement Dave Adams, Senior Director, Strategic Communications Krizia L. Alba, Senior Associate, Advancement Operations Faelan Blair, Digital Archives Specialist Ruby Brown, Manager, Strategic Communications Lee Cohen, Director, Brand Creative Nick DaCosta, Coordinator, Advancement Operations Angela Goding, Senior Director, Advancement Sarah Watson Gray, Senior Director, Integrated Advancement Alyssa Krop-Brandfon, Director, Advancement Operations Elaine Lezcano-Perez, Archives Assistant Lauren Nesslein, Senior Manager, Advancement Leslie Reed, Senior Associate, Strategic Communications Melanie Rodríguez, Associate, Strategic Communications

Artistic Programs Carra Martinez, Senior Director, Lifetime Support for Artists Mario Alberto Zambrano, (1994 Dance & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts), Senior Director, National Arts Competition Manny Blasco, Senior Manager, Outreach & Community Development Zayra Campos, Manager, Lifetime Support for Artists Eloise Janssen, (2017 Visual Arts), Associate, Lifetime Support for Artists Claire Traeger, Associate Director, National Winner Programs Alexandra Venegas,(2016 Visual Arts), Coordinator, Early Recognition for Artists Neidra Ward, Associate Director, National Competition Bethany Wearden, Senior Manager, Lifetime Support for Artists

Finance & Operations Melissa Doval, Vice President, Finance & Operations Gary Blake, Event Engineer Jared De Freitas, Director, Information Technology Mackenzie Douglas, Manager, Event Logistics Tatiana Calderon, Associate, Research & Analytics Donna Lane Downey, Manager, Operations Administration Candia Joseph, Director, Finance

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Jennifer McShane, Director, Operations and Logistics Natalie Padró-Smith, Campus Operations Michael Rahaman, Manager, Information Technology Himaja Reddy Maddika,Senior Manager, Data & Analytics Antonio Rivera, Engineer Patricia Senosiain, Senior Accountant Ty Taylor, Manager, Event Operations Mike Williams, Associate, Information Technology

People Operations Mari Campuzano, Senior Director, Organizational Growth & Development Daphne Vega, Director, People Operations

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We envision a world that embraces artists as vital to our humanity. The artists of tomorrow need professional and creative development support today. With the help of our community, YoungArts offers artists the tools they need to pursue a life in the arts, including a lifetime of training, funding, mentorship and community. Make a contribution today. Visit youngarts.org or scan the QR code below. Thank you for empowering artists!

The National Foundation for the Advancement of Artists