Mosaic 2016

mosaicThe Publication of the Arts

SPRING 2016

1500 Mark Thomas Drive | Monterey, CA 93940-5291 | 831.655.9300 | santacatalina.org

Front Cover: Catch and Release, Grace Russell ’16, acrylic, 12” x 18”

Back Cover: 127 Hours, Christie Panutomo ’16, digital print

All content © 2016 Santa Catalina School students as indicated.

Student Editors Hannah Grogin ’16

Ashten Nguyen ’16

Grace Russell ’16

Ilana Hagen ’17

Annarose Hunt ’17

Faculty Advisor Mr. Simon Hunt

Staff Jessica Almos ’18

Rowan Azhderian ’18

Ivy Armijo ’17

Sammy Bennett ’17

Loleï Brenot ’17

Jenna Downs ’17

Isis Enders ’17

Ella Hougie ’19

Katherine Kim ’18

Victoria Kvitek ’16

Emma Leamey ’19

Ana León Nuñez ’18

Jenna Mann ’18

Tara Mann ’18

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Jenna Mazza ’16

Taylor Moises ’17

Sarah Ning ’18

Madeleine Oh ’18

McKenna Petersen ’17

Emily Radner ’19

Fagie Singer ’19

Juliana Tarallo ’17

Dana Zeng ’19

Design & Production Communications Office

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The Publication of the Arts 1


SPRING 2016

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Art, Catch and Release ................................................... Grace Russell ’16 ...................................... Front CoverPhotograph, Untitled ...................................................... Charlotte Gerzanics ’18 ..............................................1Photograph, Madness Behind the Beauty....................... Amira Attia ’16 ............................................................2Art, Atelophobia .............................................................. Nicole Kavalauskas ’19 ...............................................4Poem, Take Your Mark .................................................... Collette White ’16 .......................................................5Fiction, The Arrival .......................................................... Fagie Singer ’19 ..........................................................6Photograph, Untitled ...................................................... Charlotte Gerzanics ’18 ..............................................7Poem, Hope ................................................................... Annarose Hunt ’17 ......................................................8Art, Octopus ................................................................... Grace Russell ’16 .......................................................9Art, Lull of All Things Sacred ........................................... Olivia Gebreamlak ’19 ...............................................10Poem, Twin ..................................................................... Tara Mann ’18 ...........................................................11Photograph, Pablo ......................................................... Sammy Bennett ’17 ..................................................11Fiction, Untitled ............................................................... Rachel D’Agui ’18 .....................................................12Fiction, Breakroom ......................................................... Collette White ’16 .....................................................12Photograph, 1 Train ........................................................ Taylor Moises ’17 ......................................................13Art, It Was a Dark and Stormy Night ............................... Linda Hayden ’18 .....................................................14Poem, Dear Writers ........................................................ Elsa Sandbach ’17....................................................15Poem, An Indecisive Ode to Coffee ................................ Claire Cardona ’16 ....................................................16Art, Pavels ...................................................................... Grace Russell ’16 .....................................................17Photograph, Presentation Day ........................................ Jenna Downs ’17 ......................................................18Fiction, Freedom ............................................................. Charlotte Wade ’17 ...................................................19Fiction, Control, or Lack Thereof ..................................... Isabella Ateshian ’16 .................................................19Poem, Haiku ................................................................... Katherine Kim ’18 .....................................................20Photograph, One Second ............................................... Caitlyn Rodriguez ’16 ................................................20

Table of Contents


Poem, Five Ways of Rejecting a Date .............................. Sitara Masilamani ’16 ................................................21Art, There’s A New King Under the Mountain .................. Molly Gilbert ’19 ........................................................21Fiction, Billet-Doux .......................................................... Erika Schwerdfeger ’19 .............................................22Art, Brain Tumor Reimagined .......................................... Jordan Gersh ’17 ......................................................23Photograph, Pismo Beach .............................................. Kaylaa Kawasaki ’17 .................................................25Fiction, Midnight Deadline ............................................... Octavia Dickinson ’17 ...............................................25Poem, You Wanted Extra Medium .................................. Rachel D’Agui ’18 .....................................................26Art, Carmel ..................................................................... Grace Russell ’16 .....................................................27Poem, Two and a Half Ways of Dropping Bad News ....... Haley Hougardy ’16 ..................................................28Art, Untitled .................................................................... Sarah Lamp ’17 ........................................................29Photograph, Mid May Amazement.................................. Tatiana Maldonado ’17..............................................30Fiction, A Brother’s Shoulders ......................................... Fagie Singer ’19 ........................................................30Poem, The Forest ........................................................... Lucy Stowe ’16.........................................................31Poem, Happiness ........................................................... Brianna Brady ’16 .....................................................32Art, Small World .............................................................. Sum Yue Guan ’19 ...................................................33Poem, A Memory ........................................................... Sarah Levi ’16 ...........................................................34Art, Purple Houhai .......................................................... Sum Yue Guan ’19 ...................................................35Photograph, Ultralight Cathedral ..................................... Sammy Bennett ’17 ..................................................36Fiction, Writing Exercise .................................................. Claire Cardona ’16 ....................................................37Fiction, Margins .............................................................. Sierra Papazian ’16 ...................................................37Photograph, Lowlights .................................................... Sammy Bennett ’17 ..................................................38Poem, Mourning ............................................................. Lucy Stowe ’16.........................................................39Poem, Il Mio Sonetto ...................................................... Laura Haskin ’18.......................................................40Art, Horses ..................................................................... Mariana Fernández ‘19 .............................................41Poem, Constant Change ................................................ Rachel D’Agui ’18 .....................................................42Art, Hands ...................................................................... Grace Russell ’16 .....................................................43Photograph, Slat ............................................................ Caitlyn Rodriguez ’16 ................................................44Fiction, In Orbit ............................................................... Fagie Singer ’19 ........................................................45Fiction, The Dark Side of Night........................................ Lauren Garcia ’16 .....................................................46Art, Mouthface ................................................................ Jordan Gersh ’17 ......................................................47Fiction, Shadow Box ....................................................... Collette White ’16 .....................................................48Photograph, Freedom Tower .......................................... Taylor Moises ’17 ......................................................49Poem, A Finite Together .................................................. Erika Schwerdfeger ’19 .............................................50Photograph, Drifting ....................................................... Dana Zeng ’19 ..........................................................51Art, Owl .......................................................................... Sum Yue Guan ’19 ...................................................52Poem, The Dry Cactus ................................................... Audrey Nixon ’19 ......................................................53Art, Rear View Mirror ...................................................... Jordan Gersh ’17 ......................................................54Poem, Woods ................................................................ Marie Ramirez ‘16 .....................................................55Non-Fiction, ................................................. Yuki Yang ’19 ............................................................56Photograph, Brooklyn ..................................................... Taylor Moises ’17 ......................................................57Poem, October Leaves ................................................... Isabella Ateshian ’16 .................................................58Art, Canada Sunset ........................................................ Grace Russell ’16 .....................................................59Fiction, Ends and Beginnings .......................................... Fagie Singer ’19 ........................................................59Art, The Flycatcher ......................................................... Vivien Yip ’18 ............................................................61Poem, Who I Am at 1:24 a.m. ........................................ Collette White ’16 .....................................................62Art, Lemondrop .............................................................. Sum Yue Guan ’19 ...................................................63Poem, Arrow .................................................................. Annarose Hunt ’17 ....................................................64Art, It’s an Avocado! ....................................................... Sammy Bennett ’17 ..........................Inside Back CoverPhotograph, 127 Hours .................................................. Christie Panutomo ’16 ................................Back Cover

窗外的风景列车在铁轨上飞速⾏行驶。放下⼿手中的⼩小说，我揉⼀一揉有些⼲干涩的眼睛，转头望向窗外。擦得⼲干⼲干净净的透亮玻璃窗向下开了⼀一半。刚下过⾬雨，清新的空⽓气伴随着草地与泥⼟土的味道随风从窗⼜⼝口灌进扑⾯面⽽而来，像是整个⼈人撞进了⼤大⾃自然温柔的怀抱，双颊上停留着微微湿润的感觉，从上⾄至下我的每⼀一根神经都放松下来。列车旅⾏行的⼀一个惬意下午。我陷进座椅的靠背中，挪动头，让有些发⿇麻的脖⼦子得到舒缓。⾯面前，桌上刚撕开包装的西班⽛牙烟熏⽕火腿散发出诱⼈人的⾹香味，瓷杯⾥里红茶还冒着热⽓气。把窗户往下再拉开⼀一点，吹着风，我已全然没有了⼀一丝睡意。刚才两旁向后倒退地飞快的树⽊木丛林现在已不知所踪，视野逐渐变的辽阔，有缓慢起伏的⼭山坡取⽽而代之，满眼都是赏⼼心悦⽬目的绿意。或许是因为景远了，就连列车的速度也感觉慢了不少，⼀一切都那样清晰地呈现在眼前，又觉得有些应接不暇。复古⽽而温馨的⼩小屋就这样随意地坐落在⼭山间，像童话中的⼩小镇那样可爱，每⼀一间都有⾃自⼰己独特的风格与⾊色彩，零落⽽而又不显得凌乱。⽜牛⽺羊是⾃自由的，三三两两，或是低头吃草饮⽔水，或是在草地上悠闲的摇着尾巴晒着太阳，嘴⾥里还在津津有味地咀嚼着什么。远处的阿尔卑斯⼭山脉依稀可见，阳光照在雪峰上，反射着耀眼的⽩白光，⼀一不⼩小⼼心溅进瞳孔，让⼈人⼀一阵眩晕。眨眨眼再睁开，银装素裹的⼭山峰点缀着⽆无边的绿⾊色，交织相融，绵延不绝，缓慢的从眼前经过，像是⼀一幅动态的画，却不是哪⼀一位画家的作品可以与之媲美的。天空是那⼀一成不变的透澈的蓝，像是被⽆无数⾬雨⽔水冲刷过，蓝得没有⼀一丝杂质，连⼀一缕⽩白云的影⼦子都没有。转⾝身回过头，看见笑容可掬的列车员从⾝身旁经过，我不由莞尔。我瞪⼤大双眼，想将这醉⼈人的风景烙进⼼心⾥里。 !!!!This is a passage I wrote on a trip. When I was travelling in Switzerland on a train, I was amazed by its beauty. The sky was perfectly blue, connecting the white top of the Alps and there were cows and sheep wandering on the mountains. The train passed them quickly, but I decides to record this wonderful view on paper.

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Acknowledgments

Sister ClaireMr. John Aimé

Mrs. Michelle AveryMs. Crystal Boyd ’89

Dr. Kassandra T. Brenot ’87Mrs. Bo Covington

Ms. Kathleen Founds ’00Mr. Marc Howard ’93 LS

Dr. Nancy HuntDr. Gerry Kapolka

Mrs. Jamie LeMaireMs. Claire LernerDr. John Murphy

Mr. Richard PattersonMr. Dale Thompson

Ms. Nicole West

…and all the students of Santa Catalina who submitted their work.

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Take Your Mark

Collette White ’16

We all crumble under pressure,but once you see the earthquakes

are coming from your faultsyou learn how deep trembles are felt beneath the surface.

But if I drop you, will I be the one who shatters?

We were taught that when a boy hits a girl on the playgroundthat means he likes her.

And boys were taught to play with their toys,but girls were taught to become them.

When a girl says no,she’s only playing hard to get,

while he learned that only a prince can save her.In business school he’s taught to never take no as an answer.

But his eyes will be the only stones breaking through her window.

He’s scared of the lightning in her fingertipsand her splatter paint attention span.

She’s a bowling ball of butcher knives,each sharper than her tongue.

But we talk about her like she’s a map,defining her by her edges and curves and not what’s inside of them.

We cut our hands on the edgesand try to make finger paintings with the blood on our hands.

Makes it sound beautiful, doesn’t it?She starts to believe them.

Male attention is perceived as kindness, which is believed to be seduction.

All we ask for is a friend,a mouth that will heal and never bite our tongue.

Can you tell me exactly why the “friend zone” is such a bad place to be?Nice guys will always finish last when they don’t understand—

I’m not a finishing line; I’m the starting gun.

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It was late on a Tuesday night when Jeremiah Hale showed up—I remember watching from the window in my bedroom in my grandma’s townhouse as he stepped out of my neighbor Cassandra’s car with a duffel bag in one hand and a guitar case in the other. I’d never seen him before, which was surprising as he bore a striking resemblance to Cass, who’d lived along with her fiancé a few townhouses down from mine for almost a year.

It seemed to be a very uncomfortable affair—Cassandra’s fiancé appeared in the driveway to greet the boy with a forced handshake that was awkward at best, and then they all went inside, albeit reluctantly. I remember looking at him—past the ripped tank top and the messy black hair, past the few tattoos visible at his collarbone—looking into his eyes and seeing nothing. His expression was completely blank.

He just looked tired.

***There’s a quiet spot underneath an old elm tree in the grassy area between the rows of townhouses where I used to study, setting up against the sturdy trunk with my books and a pair of headphones for an hour or two

at a time. Occasionally, I would see Jeremiah sitting up on his roof, always with a cigarette and sometimes with a notebook that he’d scrawl in every few minutes or so.

I really tried not to pay him any attention, but each time I saw him my mind would wander, and I’d find myself wondering about the boy who arrived late on an ordinary weeknight in a neighborhood where he’d never been, who wore shirts that were faded and ripped though he now lived in one of the nicest areas in town, who smoked on the roof and wrote in a notebook and had no clue that I was watching him or even that I existed.

But that’s just how it was—I’d come to accept that no one knew I existed. I was always going to be the girl everyone forgot about, the girl in the back of the classroom, the one hidden in her house playing piano for hours on end and blending into the trees as she does homework underneath mysterious boys who smoke and write and who would never notice her.

I look back on my life when I was seventeen, and I see a calm and uneventful ocean. The waves, predictable and consistent—

The Arrival

Fagie Singer ’19


obsessively playing piano and taking care of my grandmother and going to school—lapped slowly onto the shore. There was always the ever-looming thought of the future, but sometimes I had trouble believing that the future really existed, even in the spring of my senior year.

And then Jeremiah suddenly appeared, a long-awaited tsunami that changed everything. He was a crazy series of waves that upset any balance that I previously had. He changed everything, though I never could have predicted that when I was staring at him on the roof.

I’ve had people try to tell me that Jeremiah ruined my life, but that’s wrong. My life wasn’t ruined when he showed up that Tuesday.

It was finally begun.

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Hope

Annarose Hunt ’17

When the day comes that there is no plastic in the ocean,I hope my daughter is there to see it. I hope that she needs a jacket in the wintertime,When she bikes to work in the cold. I hope that she watches whales And eats her vegetables with able fingers.I hope that she gets to see an iceberg,Gets to see a polar bear,Gets to see a rain forest in an afternoon storm.I hope she spells her name with gentle fingers on soft sand;I hope that she loves to learn.And, when heartbreak sets in, I hope that She can find the perfect song to hold her tight. I want to tell her all of this someday, tell her how to find Her reflection in a lake, tell her where the treesGrew up with footholds just for her. I want to tell her that the best bugs are under the plainest rocksAnd the best people are the ones you’d never imagine.I hope she learns that the best medicine is a held hand,That the most magnificent advice is simply to hold on. I hope that she can find love in herself for others, And love in others for herself. But if all else fails,I hope that she knows to have hope.


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Twin

Tara Mann ’18

I had a twin once

***She stole my face

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Untitled

Rachel D’Agui ’18

“Does he love her?”

“Not like he loved you.”

Breakroom


11:43. Almost time for lunch. She, the one who eats a ham sandwich every day (rye bread, no cheese), was headed for the 1980s style breakroom with linoleum floor tile, water cooler, and half-wilting Swedish ivy plant on the windowsill. Her two-inch alligator pumps clacked on wood during the trek from her corner cubicle to the lunchtime sanctuary. There she stood, opened the fridge, then her saran-wrapped lunch, took a seat and a deep breath. In walked the new intern, three weeks as of last Tuesday. He went for the stale coffee. She merely smiled. His world stopped.


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Dear Writers,

Your lover’s eyes, they are not a kaleidoscope. Their hands are not the keys to a universe you forgot existed. Their smile doesn’t light the Milky Way; it’s just bone that couldn’t be contained by flesh. You could stare at them all day and tell me their hair is glowing and auburn—but I just see brown. Their fingers are not the twine holding you together at night; some part of you just wants to live. Their lips are not a beacon for your lost ship mouth, and their body is not yours to claim and know. Their curves don’t match your valleys because fate said it would be so. It’s simply that their human body has ups and downs, and so does yours, and if you lie like a jigsaw puzzle sometimes they match up. Or you can make them if you hold tight enough. Those red roses on Valentine’s Day didn’t mean true love; they meant the reminder on their calendar showed up in the nick of time and cliché felt like a good choice at the florist. And the cadence of their voice thick with night and alcohol isn’t your happy ever after; they’re just drunk. They aren’t your fairy tale ending—you’re just two sad people starved for a love you’re convinced you found in someone, but you thought that the last time, too, right?

But I guess that’s what we all want, isn’t it? We want something that isn’t us because we are tired of just being. Simply existing isn’t getting us as high as it used to. The sun isn’t bright when it isn’t a metaphor for her fingertips; the ocean doesn’t have a heartbeat when you can’t hear his matching it; the stars peter out in a blanket of smog until you reimagine them as the gleam in her eyes. But I guess I just forgot. Forgot to trip into her arms and kiss her like I wanted it, and not because your lips go here your tongue tastes that and now is when you pull away to kiss her neck because that’s what you’re supposed to do. I forgot to fall in love with the way her hands moved and her hips swayed and the way she said I love you and I returned the favor. And I returned the favor. So I guess that’s on me.

So dear writers,

Never mind. Keep writing.

Maybe someday I’ll understand.

Signed,

A Someone With a Tendency to Forget to Remember.

Dear Writers

Elsa Sandbach ’17

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An Indecisive Ode to Coffee

Claire Cardona ’16

You were my morning cup of coffee.You filled me with warmth whenever you reached my lips.

Your caffeine kept me awake with the thought of your arms around me.You were my hot cup of coffee.

I was your coffee pot.I savored your flavor,

your aroma,your warmth,your touch.

But then you left me.You threw me away like used coffee grounds,

and your caffeine destroyed me,caused me to jitter and break.

You were addictive,disgusting.

You began to point out my flaws,and I let you

because I was addicted.You broke my heart

and lied to me.You made me dark,

and you made me bitter.You said that’s how you liked your women:

dark and bitter.But I hated the woman you made me.

You left an acidic burn in my mouthand yellowed my teeth with angry words.

You annoy the hell out of me,and I’m glad we’re over.


But maybe I’m not.Maybe I still remember

your love for dorky musicand the way you played our favorite song

every time we had our morning coffee.I don’t give a damn about you

or your beautiful, coffee-colored eyesor your love for superhero movies.

I don’t give a damn about youor our morning coffee.

Or maybe I do.

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Freedom

Charlotte Wade ’17

As I rode into the night, past everything familiar, I was done. I had burnt all my bridges; nothing was left for me except a doll named Sally under my bed. I was moving on to a new life, a new world. Nothing was stopping me: not my dad, not my mom, my children, or my siblings. I was free, and as I turned back for one last look I saw in the distance a little figure running toward me. I knew I couldn’t leave; this was my home. And, as the figure got closer, I dismounted and slowly walked back.

Control, or Lack Thereof

Isabella Ateshian ’16

65 mph? Yes, that’s the limit, but it isn’t his limit. He drives like Mario Andretti, with extreme stealth, strategy, and control. He slithers in and out of the lanes on 68, passing the “slow” drivers with extreme fluidity, like an experienced weaver from Persia. Inches and inches of the frayed white line come and go as I sit in the passenger seat. I try not to look beyond the wing mirror to the cliff below.

Oh, the pain! There’s a sharp torment in my abdomen.

He’s fine, the car’s fine, and the baby is coming.

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Haiku

Katherine Kim ’18

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Five Ways of Rejecting a Date

Sitara Masilamani ’16

ISometimes the simple “no” doesn’t suffice.Sometimes it’s best to avoid and not respond.But you should never need to hide.

IINo boy is entitled to your time.No boy should expect that you are free.All boys should say please.

IIIUse a casual excuse: “I have plans already.”Use the truth: “I don’t like you.”Never say you will and then don’t show up.

IVIf you don’t want to be mean, go with a group of friends.If you don’t want to be mean, stay at home.If you do want to be mean, date his friend.

VAlways decline your coworkers.Always decline your friend’s ex-boyfriend.Unless he is a millionaire.

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I looked through the dingy sheet of Plexiglas separating me from 35,000 vertical square feet of sky. There isn’t much to do on flights when you’re not that into music or movies, I’ve figured out.

Having already exhausted every sentence of the available travel guide and airplane safety manual, I moved to an activity much more suited to my surroundings: people watching. Or, as I like to think of it, assuming my alter-ego role of inconspicuous special agent.

I sized up the man sitting ahead of me at a slight diagonal: heavyset, balding, and visibly sweating, despite the frigid airplane air. Processing this information, I began my analysis of the newly acquired subject of interest.

He was middle-aged. Married, but not necessarily happily. In fact, things were probably tense right now. Once the honeymoon phase ended and reality set in, really, what else could you expect?

Things had gone from bad to worse recently with a few offhand comments which were, apparently, unacceptable, and after that those early golden-tinged days had become a distant memory. Forced smiles and bitter coffee were the menu items for yet another gray morning.

Why else would he be on this flight, if not to get away for a few days? Certainly not for business travel. Most likely, he had just lost his job, making his wife even more upset. Since he was a hopeless layabout, his halfhearted job search was inconclusive. Another cause for tension in the house, the more reason for him to have to get away.

Looking away, I turned to my next subject of interest: this time, an ancient woman with shockingly white hair and countless wrinkles etched into a face that, despite their presence, appeared ageless. She was unaccompanied, and although wholly alone she appeared content.

Billet-Doux

Erika Schwerdfeger ’19


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She was going to visit family, I decided. It’s the only reason she would board the flying tin-can contraption that she had so long mistrusted. But it’d be worth it, of course, to meet her new grandchildren, so young and still so innocent. Her husband—she had been married, long and happily, I was sure of it—never had the chance to meet them but loved them all the same.

Turning back to the window, I saw the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the entirety of the sky. As it set, the vibrant colors set the clouds on fire, making me both appreciative and in awe of this force of nature.

Sighing for some reason unknown, I resigned myself again to searching

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the seat pocket in front of me for viable reading material. As I placed the stack of flimsy catalogues and instruction manuals warning of various potential threats to life on this aircraft, something fell out of the pile and onto my lap. I picked it up, feeling it between my fingers.

It was a picture, printed on sturdy card stock paper but well-loved, softened with age and frequent, gentle touch. I turned it over to reveal the photo: two people, a man and a woman with their backs to the camera, but you didn’t need to see their expressions to know what they were feeling. From what I could tell, they were both seated on the back of a motorbike. Low hills rose all around them, narrow winding roads tracing pathways over their surfaces. The woman’s hair was down and blowing in the wind, her arms wrapped around the man. He had hair that curled at the nape of his neck and broad shoulders that she leaned over excitedly. In the photo, I could see a horizon, looking not unlike the one outside my window, and a stripe of sparkling sea-green water rising in front of them.

I could smell the salty ocean breeze, feel the deliciously smooth air whipping around them, hear her laughter.

I turned my face to the sky outside my window—the flames had burned off by now, replaced with blue’s cooling touch and rapidly darkening to the color of ink. I looked back at the photo in my hand—scribbled in the corner, an unfamiliar hand had written the words “missing you always.” I felt a flicker in my chest, a feeling not unlike hope, and from somewhere inside myself came a promise. One day, I promised myself, One day I’ll whip through the streets of a place where the sea meets the sky. I’ll know what it’s like to hold on tight and never want to let go.


Midnight Deadline

Octavia Dickinson ’17

Ten minutes left. She types frantically, fingers flying over the keyboard and acrylic nails clacking. Hunched over the computer like this, her back’s cramping and her shoulders aren’t thanking her either, but this has to be done. Click click click—two minutes left—backspace, backspace, DELETE—one minute—click click—thirty seconds—(loading paper, submitting)—done!

She breathes a sigh of relief and unfolds herself from her curled position. She’s got a load of history reading left to do, but she’s finished her English essay, and for that a triumphant grin cuts into her cheeks.

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You Wanted Extra Medium


When I talked about philosophy my eyes glowed with fire,And when I spoke of you a supernova sprung from my lips.

You stared at me, bored.

When we fell together, I was the building collapsing in an earthquake, 40 stories tall.

You were the book that I knocked off of the coffee table. I was shattered; you were shaken.


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Two and a Half Ways of Dropping Bad News

Haley Hougardy ’16

IClasp the bad news softly above your head as

you sprinkle the shock in the form of glitter.

IIGently release the bad news into a mixing bowl as you

bake it into an oatmeal cookie. Proceed to present in treat form.

IIIGrip the baseball bat ten inches to the left of

the kneecap and let the news rocket forth as you sw-


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A Brother’s Shoulders

Fagie Singer ’19

The little boy took his father by the hand and led him out to a tree in their backyard.

“Daddy, how tall was Henry?”

The boy’s father bent over to pick up his son and placed the boy’s hand over a spot on the tree.

“Where would his shoulders be, Daddy?”

His father moved the boy’s hand down.

“Make me a seat.”

The boy’s father lifted his son onto the wood planks nailed into the tree. The little boy looked around and began to cry. The world would never again look as it had on top of his older brother’s shoulders.

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The Forest

Lucy Stowe ’16

She smelled of wood and decomposing flowersIn the forest she had wasted all her hoursThere she played and there she stayedUntil her mother called her in, what a shame

She said goodbye to the birdsTheir wings so long and beautiful unfurledTinted red with specks of black at the tipsMagical, she thought as she trekked back

She said goodbye to the deerThey bowed their heads as she came nearTheir smooth fur tingled the tips of her fingersShe kissed their noses and continued her journey

She said goodbye to the fish in the streamRunning her hand through the water, she gleamedThey gave her kisses and brushed her smooth skinTheir scales leaving a sticky film on her fingers

She said goodbye to the forest and the animals she lovedGoodbye to the open moon that shined aboveGoodbye to the stars she had claimed for her ownHello to the real world, hello to home

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Happiness

Brianna Brady ’16

It is a fragile fragment of timeLike waking up to a fresh snow,

The vibrant trees in the middle of fall,The smell of warm bread on a lazy day,

Or the sound of steady rainfall.It is merely a fragment of time—

That moment you realize school has been canceledOr you go on a trip to Ireland or Wales.

It is in the taste of a warm cookie melting in your mouth,In knowing you are never alone,

In following your passions or feeling strong.

It is a fragile fragment of time,Like being free in the ocean,Helping someone in need,

Or flying cross-country to learn new things.

It can be felt, tasted, observed, and heard.One moment it is there; the next it is not.

It is a spoonful of change,Simplicity that is hard to attain.

The moment will pass,So tempting,

Because happiness is a fragile fragment of time.


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A Memory

Sarah Levi ’16

Wind and song parched lips from dry airfast legs and laughter.Glancing back at boys stuck in second place.

Dirty knees and elegant dresses,confessionals, prayers, and sacraments. Exotic, foreign foods, sour, bitter, sweet,and disliked by all but me.

Low hanging fruit, just a jump away. Warm dulce de leche,una cucharita.Cobblestone streets, broken sidewalks,and nopalitos just for me.

Lingering whiffs of tobacco and swinging benches with picture books. Stories of broken glass and flaming synagogues. Lists upon lists of Sarahs, all dead but me.

Beaten pathways, rusted swings, barren plains, and pine forests.

Imaginary friends, hidden gardens, and far off fairy lands,known only to me.


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Long mysterious walksand new experiences. Midnight adventuresand beating hearts. Warmth in the cold rain and ruined leather boots.

Restrictions and taboo words, hiding and listening. Broken promises, heartbreak,and lies.

Escape, dreams, realities, and persistence. Two simultaneous languages and cultures intermixing.

Hardship, resilience, and forgiveness.A new chapter begun and an old put behind. As in a dream, a memory, my memory.

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Writing Exercise

Claire Cardona ’16

Define any concept using a list of related words and phrases.

Love (noun): friendship, longing, desire, eager, butterflies, happiness, kisses, trust, honesty, loyalty, passion, warmth, comfort, hugs, gifts, beauty, infatuation, charmed, romance, adore, affection, compassion, cherish, devotion, I want to be with you for the rest of my life, you’re the love of my life, I’ve never felt this way before, I care about you, I miss you, I know how you like your tea, forever, engagement, husband, family, spectacular, future, unfaithful, pain, lies, heartbreak, tears, rage, mistake, loss, grief, forgotten, I still miss you, rest in peace, I’m sorry.

Margins

Sierra Papazian ’16

She didn’t think she was anything special. She wore normal clothes and shopped at normal stores. She doodled in her margins, just like any uninterested teenager would. She thought she was in the margins of the world. But she didn’t know what the world had planned. She didn’t know her “doodles” would become art or that her art would be sold in normal stores or be turned into normal clothes. She didn’t know the next generation of uninterested teens would doodle her art in their margins. She thought normal was bad, but maybe it wasn’t, especially when she was defining “normal.”

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Mourning

Lucy Stowe ’16

Black hats bow lowJust skimming the groundBlack heels pierce dirtNever making a soundBlack dresses hang drearyAppearing old and wearyBlack coats form shadowsOver grass stained red

His coffin is black, tooThe roses are whiteThey contrast the skyBut share grief with the nightHis eyes are closedHis mind is deadShe wishes it were herWith a bullet in her headBut she proceedsDown the aisle she walksUp to the podiumShe begins to talkShe mentions his brothersHis sister and his motherHis father who couldn’t be here

Suddenly she can’t see clearHer pages are blotted With salty, clear waterHer words melt togetherForming assortments of lettersThe ink burns her handsAnd she drops the speechShe speaks from her heartShe mentions his loveFor small furry creaturesShe goes on about his hatredFor quesadillas and taqueriasAnd how he loved the starsEven though he’d never meet themAt one point she thoughtShe couldn’t carry onTalking about his curly hairAnd how he wrote his songsBut she took one lookAt his freckle-spatted cheeksAnd she saw him dancingAmong the stars, so to speak

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Il Mio Sonetto

Laura Haskin ’18

The rolling hills make up the countryside,Big, shiny buildings and the city lights. Is life better calm or from massive heights? Trees, bees, fleas beautifully bona fide.

Bustling crowds do push; you can’t be meek.Born amongst I.M. Pei’s sleek skyscrapers,But factories emit caustic vapors,The city or country should I seek?

The fragrances of nature renew my soul. Like Wordsworth, I seek the pastoral life,So silent I can hear my own heartbeat.Eyes closed, breathing in crisp air makes me whole.My tension is released with no more strife. When in the countryside I am complete.


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Constant Change


I went away for a year, and when I came back you were gone. I mean, you were here, of course. You’d never left. But you were three miles taller, half as wide, and only a quarter as bright. I’d left two thirds of my heart at home and misplaced the other piece along the way. Like broken puzzle pieces, we no longer fit.


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In Orbit

Fagie Singer ’19

I remember when I first learned that the world was spinning. I used to imagine that I could feel it: I would run around my backyard, arms outstretched, turning in circles until I was so dizzy I’d fall over. My mother said I was “creative.” My father said I was nuts.

I remember thinking my small, sleepy town was the stillest place in the universe. No one ever moved. Nothing ever changed. I grew up feeling stuck, always looking ahead.

I remember the moment I first saw her. I could feel the word spin.

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The Dark Side of Night

Lauren Garcia ’16

Charlie wakes at 3:42 to his phone buzzing. “Really, Lil? Don’t you know what time it is?” he says sleepily into the phone. She replies with “Charlie, it’s been four hours and seventeen minutes since I’ve seen you. Can’t you seem a little bit more excited?”

“No, because it’s 3:43, and I told you to stop calling in the early hours.”

“Well, whatever—I just called to say I miss you. Love you, Charlie.”

“Goodnight, Lilly. I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

Charlie turns over, throwing his arm around his wife, careful not to wake her.


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Shadow Box


And that was the end of that. It was the end of the custody battle that lasted half his lifetime. Instead of preparing for his two separate seventh birthday parties, two separate Christmases, two separate lives—it just ended. That was the end of that. It was the end of court dates and mother-son movie nights, the end of baseball practices and mind games. They, the two, had to work together one last time and do the one thing no parent wants to do. They decided on wood grain, flowers, incense, and service prayers. And that was the end of that.


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A Finite Together

Erika Schwerdfeger ’19

With falling leaves came falling spirits,Wind that made you seem transparent.It drowned the sighs, the strangled cries Of a shadowy figment, still holding on.

I thought the autumn rains might do you good.How foolish I was to think water could wash it away—The stuff on your cheeks was still salty.

When winter came, light shortened, And so did our time left together.We I just didn’t know it yet.

Your breath fogged up the frosted glass;The cold painted color on your cheeks,But you moved stiffly, slowing downWith each step, growing weak.

We both got too used to silence.Maybe you needed wanted it like this—Strange it is, now I regret That I never thought to ask.

At least, I’d say, we were together.You’d echo me with hollow voice,Wanting reassurance, yetToo often silence drowns out noise.

You left—I wonder where you went.I stay—and, since then, time has slowed.Still, sometimes I can forget—It’s easier with eyes closed.

Spring and summer fade too fast.Each day makes me remember.Sometimes I miss those seasons past.More often, I miss you.


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The Dry Cactus

Audrey Nixon ’19

The dry cactus sits high on a hill,

waiting for the warm embrace of the sun.

Far below the hill there was a riverbed.

The cactus holds on to the memory

of the cool and silky water.

The crow pecks the cactus, but nothing

can suit its satisfaction.

The cactus hears the call of an owl.

It wishes it could reach out and grab it

but lets the owl fly past.

The cactus longs for the splash of water

coming down the river.

The ground rumbles and cracks slowly,

like rocks eroding over time.

There is nothing now.

The cactus slowly crumbles

and is quiet as a child sleeping.

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Woods

Marie Ramirez ’16

We walked for hours through the woods.Each step was met with a feeling of regret. It grew darker, the colorful sun Peeking through the trees like a child at play, Like the guiding light of a mother Trying to make everything okay.

But I feared it would not be okay,That we would never escape from these woods—That maybe I would never find my mother,That for all my days I would be filled with regret.Maybe it would be different if I stopped to play, And, just maybe, I would once again see the bright sun—

To feel the warm embrace of the sun,To once again be okay,To forget all the worrying and go out to play,To leave these forsaken woods,To not cry out with regret,But I can’t be left without a mother.

Without the guiding gaze of a motherShining as bright as the sun,One is bound to be filled with regret.But you have to figure that is okay—You have to wander off in the woodsAnd spend your days at play.

If you play, Maybe you will be watched over by mother.Maybe the trees are only wood.Could the bright morning sun Make everything all right and okay? If you spend your days in search to no avail, are you met with regret?

But what is regret?Is it once again forgetting how to play? Is it the pit in your stomach that does not feel okay?Is it the cries of a motherCalling to her son Who disappeared in the woods?

Listen to your mother.She may be wiser than the sun.She may know the dangerous ways of the woods.

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Yuki Yang ’19




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October Leaves

Isabella Ateshian ’16

The October leaves rustle as they fall,

Unhurriedly drifting in the faint breeze.

Trembling thoughts coalesce in a plaintive call

Heard amidst the sharp silence of the trees.

We were young once, lush with verdant splendor;

Now we are old, pale as the setting sun.

Nothing remains but a sense of wonder

Gently ebbing as leaves fall one by one;

Hundreds fall and rejoin the sea of leaves

Under the spell of the wind’s enchantment.

In a last dance, rustling with memories,

Each distinct, yet all a blur of movement.

The autumn leaves rustle as they sweep

’Neath the faint shadow of eternal sleep.


I rolled into a crouch as soon as my feet hit the hard-packed dirt, looking around at the cluster of moonlit cabins. The camp seemed empty when I heard an unmistakable snicker—Harrison. My best friend seemed to materialize out of nowhere; his eyes crinkled, and his mouth curved into a lopsided grin.

“Taylor, you are the worst ninja I’ve ever seen,” Harrison whispered. “You

know you can just use the door. These counselors are so worn out, they sleep like rocks.”

“Maybe yours do,” I countered. “Sarah’s the lightest sleeper I’ve ever met.”

“Whatever, Tay. Let’s go.”

We took off running in the direction of the lake, shedding our shoes and

Ends and Beginnings

Fagie Singer ’19

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socks as soon as we hit the dock. After checking to make sure the coast was clear, we headed out onto the old wooden platform. Still breathing hard, Harrison and I high-fived over another successful getaway. We’d been sneaking out to the lake every Saturday night for seven summers; after coming pretty close to being busted a few times on our first few getaways, we’d gotten pretty good. Harrison and I were a well-oiled machine, not to mention undefeated capture-the-flag champions and legendary pranksters.

“Can you believe our last summer is over?” I asked, sitting down on the edge of the dock and swirling my feet in the lake’s cool water.

“We’ll be back next year as junior counselors,” Harrison answered. “What’s the difference?”

“It won’t be the same.”

“You’re right,” Harrison said, kicking his foot and covering me in a spray of lakewater. “It’ll be better.”

He broke out into a fit of laughter as he jumped up, avoiding my attempts to splash him back and holding his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry, Tay. I couldn’t resist.”

“Neither can I,” I replied, putting my hands on his shoulders and pushing him off the dock. “Sorry, Harrison.”

Now it was my turn to burst into laughter as he hit the water with a splash. He came up for air sputtering, pushing his sopping hair out of his eyes. Before I knew what was happening, he had his hands around my ankles and I toppled into the water. After we had both finished laughing, the feeling I had before all the good-natured fighting returned. Treading water, I went over to his side.

“C’mon, Harrison. Be serious. It’s our last night as campers.”

“I am being serious!” he answered. “Being JCs is going to be awesome. No counselors in charge of us, no one bossing us around, no rules…”

“We’ll be the ones in charge,” I interrupted. “We’ll be the ones bossing kids around and enforcing the rules. It won’t be like it is now, where we just get to have fun all day.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he finally agreed. “Maybe it will be different.”

“We’d better get back,” I said, realizing with a start how hard it was going to be to climb up back through the window in soaking wet clothes.

We climbed up onto the platform, put our shoes and socks back on in silence, and jogged back to camp as quietly as possible. We stopped at the clearing between our cabins.


“I can’t wait for next summer, Tay,” Harrison said, running his hands through his dripping hair. “Sure, it’ll be different, but something tells me we’ll still have a blast.”

I smiled. He waved at me before turning around and heading over to his cabin. I looked up at the window I’d jumped out of before and realized I didn’t need to worry about climbing back through—the logs of the cabin created perfect footholds—and boosted myself up onto the first log.

“Wait!” Harrison whispered from behind me. I jumped, landing on the ground with a thud. Before I could say anything, Harrison kissed me.

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Who I Am at 1:24 a.m.


Let me tell you a bit about myself:

My hair is never done quite right, and my freckles define my face.

I get overly excited about sports teams that I know nothing about.

I tell people my eyes are a greenish brownish honeyish color.

They’re brown but turn lighter in the sun.

I don’t believe in horoscopes; Leos never do.

I’m a collection of half-strung maybes,

a walking oxymoron.

I am always taking my hand away from the flame.

I hide behind metaphors and fall over my ambition, only to land on my pride.

I believe that life is for the living, but there has to be something more.

I say that I love Shakespeare, but I only like Hamlet and that’s it.

I enjoy sushi, Hozier, Disneyland, churros, and my dog.

Other things are up for discussion.

I live for dance parties and rap battles

and have a fear of bare feet touching my skin.

I live for kind moments and caramel colored coffee,

for bad poetry and dahlias and fresh gallons of paint.

I need bumpers when bowling and drive with no hands.

Birds scare me; goosebumps are my favorite.

My life is a collection of half-strung maybes—

that’s the best I can do right now.


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Arrow

Annarose Hunt ’17

You wrote poems for the baby you named after a flower.

She wore daisies in her hair, lilacs between her fingers.

And then God said, “Ha!” and gave you Arrow.

She, inky-haired and blue-eyed, never won your heart.

Rather, she snatched it and ran wherever she pleased,

Until your heart lost its capacity to function, lost its direction.

At fifteen, Arrow brought home her girlfriend.

You stopped leaving your room that day. Her trust hid too.

At eighteen, Arrow filled a backpack with books.

All she left behind were her high-tops and a note

Telling you she was going to be a scientist and study

Psychology, and maybe flowers. They’d always puzzled her.

Front Cover: Catch and Release, Grace Russell ’16, acrylic, 12” x 18”

Back Cover: 127 Hours, Christie Panutomo ’16, digital print

All content © 2016 Santa Catalina School students as indicated.

Student Editors Hannah Grogin ’16

Ashten Nguyen ’16

Grace Russell ’16

Ilana Hagen ’17

Annarose Hunt ’17

Faculty Advisor Mr. Simon Hunt

Staff Jessica Almos ’18

Rowan Azhderian ’18

Ivy Armijo ’17

Sammy Bennett ’17

Loleï Brenot ’17

Jenna Downs ’17

Isis Enders ’17

Ella Hougie ’19

Katherine Kim ’18

Victoria Kvitek ’16

Emma Leamey ’19

Ana León Nuñez ’18

Jenna Mann ’18

Tara Mann ’18It’

s a

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Jenna Mazza ’16

Taylor Moises ’17

Sarah Ning ’18

Madeleine Oh ’18

McKenna Petersen ’17

Emily Radner ’19

Fagie Singer ’19

Juliana Tarallo ’17

Dana Zeng ’19

Design & Production Communications Office

5/2016-500


SPRING 2016

1500 Mark Thomas Drive | Monterey, CA 93940-5291 | 831.655.9300 | santacatalina.org

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Mosaic 2016