The Best-in-Grade Award, sponsored by Bloomberg Philanthropies, offers $500 scholarships to 24 Gold Medal recipients (two artists and two writers per grades 7–12). These works were determined by our judges to be the best of the best, and we’re proud to announce the talented teens who won this year’s Best-in-Grade Award.

Want to apply for this scholarship next year? Learn how to get ready for the 2022 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards or sign up for a reminder on September 1, when the 2022 Scholastic Awards open for entry!

Congratulations to the 2021 Best-in-Grade Award winners!

Our Anthem

Jerry Tong, Personal Essay & Memoir. Grade 7, Pearland Junior High School West, Pearland, TX. Best-in-Grade Award 2021

My choir marched through the narrow, bunker-like passage. Our four lines trekked shoulder to shoulder and rode along the left wall, avoiding the employees who passed. The halls rang with deep breaths of anxiousness, the thumping beat of nervous hearts, and heavy steps of excitement. Then, we turned towards the entrance where the glorious light of the field gleamed through. The cheers of the crowd ricocheted off the walls. We strode through the threshold and trampled the crisp, emerald turf. Bubbling with excitement, I watched as each member slowly and subconsciously chipped away from our crystal form, curiosity guiding their exploration across the field. A man wearing a red, collared shirt waved us over, recollecting our cluster in the four perfect lines. I wiped at the timid sweat dripping down my face, fidgeted with my quivering fingers, and scratched at my itchy, cotton vest. Noticing my antsy behavior, the coach raised his voice over the crowd to share his calming quote, which he often offered during rehearsal, ”As long as we all look stupid together, you don’t look stupid.” The clowns of the choir glanced at each other and giggled.

It was impossible to imagine that just two hours earlier we had reached the entrance of NRG Stadium. The energy built up inside me seemed to rocket through time. A crowd had gathered before the entrance, almost all wearing the same uniform as me. We each wore a white button-up with a black sweater vest and stiff pants. The pair my mom had bought me were too big, so she had cuffed them many times, and they felt like weights around my ankles every time I took a step. Blanketing my uniform was a thick, fluffy coat that tickled my neck and tried to shield me from the chilling fall breeze. Even then, my teeth chattered, and my body shook, trembled, froze. I squeezed my way into the crowd and began to wait, like everyone else, for our coach, Mr. Steve.

Catching a glimpse of the trio of glittering, broad Bronze Bull statues leaping through the air, my dad begged to take a photo of me in front of them. As I lumbered past the Toros, dragging my feet, my elbow brushed against a cold metal hoof. It sent a sharp chill through my bones. As if touching a scorching stove, I immediately withdrew my arm, tucking myself deeper into my warm shell. The camera clicked with a blinding flash.

Cutting through the chit-chat, Mr. Steve reminded us, “Hey kids, skim through your binders one more time; we’re about to head in.” Although the rest of our uniforms seemed to enhance our professionalism, Mr. Steve wore his typical business casual attire. His cloud-white hair was parted, as usual, groomed to the side and cloaking his bald spots. During rehearsal, his hair would often flutter when he vigorously conducted us, exposing his balding areas. Though everyone knew, out of fear of being overheard, no one ever mentioned it.

Standing behind Mr. Steve was the assistant coach and a wrinkled woman who was our guide. The guide stepped forward and yanked the glass door open to the elegant, marble-tiled stadium. Waddling through the entrance, the warm, comforting air filled my lungs. Once all the members entered the building, the guide hustled back to the front of our clump. She led us through the halls of densely packed workers and sports fans, and past the walls of Texans memorabilia. Finally, we arrived at the underground entrance where we descended the stairs into a dark maze under the stadium.

Beneath the rusted steel pipes and crumbling stone ceiling, a starchy supermarket scent drifted through the air. All of the rectangular tables and foldable chairs were filled to the brim with kids who munched on their provided ham sandwiches. The soft cheese stuck to the roof of my mouth and coated the ham that stretched like rubber, and the wilted lettuce. The halls trembled with chewing, chattering, and chuckling. By noon, all that was left was the faint echo of tense, forced laughter and the slippery, smooth grease coating our fingertips and lips. The uncomfortableness of the thick oil beckoned to be washed off.

After everybody had freshened up, combing our hair with our fingers and brushing the leftover food off our faces and attire, Mr. Steve gathered us into four lines for our final rehearsal before the performance. My heart thumped. I could feel it kicking against my chest. The clangs resonated through my ears. Could the others in line hear the throbbing, jittery rhythm of my heart? We chirped the national anthem with our harmony of altos and sopranos one final time. The workers who were setting up equipment clapped and cheered.

In what seemed like seconds, I stood at the edge of the field, in front of my line. The man in the red shirt led us to the center of the turf where other workers set up microphones. One of the mics was placed before me. I couldn’t mess up, not a single mistake. This performance would be broadcast to millions of people who were at their homes, watching the game.

Once we settled into place, the announcer boomed, “This is the Houston Children’s Chorus and they will perform the national anthem.” I could imagine that from the position of the stands, with our black and white outfits, we looked like a herd of zebras on a savannah. I envisioned my mom and dad sinking into the couch, watching my choir and me set up for the anthem. I could hear my mom yelling for my brother to come downstairs and watch me sing on live television and my brother arguing about how his online game couldn’t be paused. I knew for sure my friends John and Eric were watching. They couldn’t miss a Texans game. Unbeknownst to them, I was on the hallowed field with their beloved team. No matter how many times I would show them the video, they would never believe it. The tension of the crowd finally reached me and breathing in the air, I almost choked on the anticipation. Everyone in the crowd stood up, some saluting, and others lifted their hands or caps to their hearts. The moment of patriotic silence was interrupted every so often by wailing babies being carried out by their distressed parents.

My heartbeat quickened. Every bone in my body quivered. I could imagine the audience laughing at any mistake I might make. I could feel the embarrassment. I saw my face on the screen to my right. I was disgusted by how my foggy glasses drooped off my sweaty nose. Yet, I was too frozen in fear to do anything to fix them. Mr. Steve and I exchanged glances as he placed his hand over his heart. Should I do the same? Before I could decide, Mr. Steve began to count us off.

My note began with a voice crack, but luckily I couldn’t hear it. Yet, feeling the pop in my throat, I knew the crowd could. We crooned like nightingales harmonizing in the evening. To my left, Garret drowned out the other singers around him, warbling in his scratchy voice. I could hardly hear Zach’s flawless notes behind me. Mr. Steve waved his hands furiously, his hair conducting along. Watching him, I was reminded of his instructions to keep our eyes from drifting off into the crowd. Thinking about what he said, I wanted to see the crowd’s reaction even more, but the urge to prevent another lecture stopped me. The dried sweat on the turf and the sweat of our group mixed inside my nostrils. I could feel my own sweat sliding down my face and soaking into my collar. The sweat began to drip into my eyes, stinging, and I almost reached to wipe it away, but Mr. Steve had also told us not to move. Instead, I blinked my eyes profusely. Listening to our choir’s melodious notes, I noticed an echo. Soon, I realized it was the speakers lining the field, repeating after us like a canary imitating a new sound.

“O’er the land of the free . . .” We were on the last line. One last time, adrenaline rushed through my veins. I focused my voice on the last note, finally harmonizing perfectly with Garret, who I could feel was flashing his wide smile. When the anthem ended, I heard a deafening crackle and boom. With my broken focus, I looked up. Fireworks had rocketed into the endless blue, and a rainbow of colors exploded, painting the sky. Mr. Steve signaled us to look back at him and stand straight. I snuck a peek at the stadium around me. A passage to our right was outlined with the head of a blue, metal bull, and from the opening of the mouth, the Texans sprinted out. Smoke erupted from the bull’s nostrils, and as it vomited out JJ Watt, the broad-shouldered player caught our stares, beamed his pearly, white smile, and curled his fingers into a thumbs up.

“Mannnnnnnnn, did you see that? JJ Watt just gave us a thumbs up!” Zach shouted as we returned to the passage from where we entered.

Stars in the Dark

Mikayla Villafuerte, Science Fiction & Fantasy. Grade 8, Veritas Christian Academy, Bellaire, TX. Best-in-Grade Award 2021

My arms are outstretched, reaching for the sky as they always will be. I struggle to grasp the bright, heavenly star to consume its nutrients. This rugged design is tedious.

Others who surround me persist in the same timeless process. They whisper among themselves about the anticipated occurrence, one that has happened twice every year since I was a young Root.

“Do you feel it? The Changing is coming!” exclaims Alba.

“I do! The Changing is coming!” Leyama responds with a quivering murmur. “The Changing is coming!” 

“The Changing is coming!”

The chant repeats until it echoes through the neighborhood. The rhythm is consistent as the sun, rising and setting, shining and dimming.

The Summer Changing draws animals to us for food and shelter. The Summer Changing brings a new generation. But I have only ever felt hollow inside, sensed death amidst this celebration of life.

I yearn to be happy, to be satisfied with the wind rustling my arms, and to live in peace, but every time I try, my evident weakness makes my arms ache—the realization of my impossible dream cascades like a torrent of worry and sadness. My loneliness pulls like an empty pit in my heart that I can never remove. Turning my leaves to hear the others rustling together and sunning themselves only deepens the canyon in my soul.  

Oh, to be the strongest. I hope for the unattainable; each time struck worse when I realize the truth. I cannot turn back the years and become a seedling again before the stunt began. I am not rotten nor leaning, but I am one of the weakest ones here. And the others’ snide murmurs never let me forget.

However, I straighten my limbs, strike a perky pose, and do the best I can to increase my meal production because that’s all I can change on my own. This mask that I wear is enough to show the others what they expect: satisfaction. Most aren’t willing to pull the bark away and reveal the broken roots hidden beneath. They aren’t even willing to sun with me. That ignorance allows me to feign a perfect composure, especially when the sun is still shining bright.

Another full moon is past, and the time is here. The Summer Changing has finally arrived. Everyone is prepared to provide for the animals. Supplies are intact, the air smells of fresh life, and vegetation grows in abundance.

Alba, the leader of our neighborhood and the most vigorous of us all, releases a shout. “The animals! They have arrived!”

Suddenly, the forest erupts in a clamor of noise.

The never-ending hum of insects. The grasshoppers on the ground below me, the cicadas are crunching above me, the bees humming lazily through the air. There are the melodious songs of the birds: whacking woodpeckers, warbling robins. The hooves of deer as they trudge through our neighborhood. And finally, the rushing of a nearby stream. The sunlight glows through the tops of our limbs, melting the ice at the Falls and signifying midday.

My branches reach toward everyone, leaning to Alba and Leyama, who are in a deep conversation a few feet away from me. They have never moved from those positions ever since I can remember. Leyama gestures a limb in my direction before murmuring something in an insistent tone.

“Is there an issue?” I rustle quietly, not wanting to be a bother.

“No issue, Solan. But I do have a question for you,” Alba murmurs with a tone almost as dry as my roots.

“Well?”

“I believe that due to your fragile health, Leyama should take your creatures this Summer Changing. You know, as we usually do.”

I sway my limbs, attempting to recall the past. What has happened again? Oh yes, they will take my share of creatures, leaving me alone, Changing after Changing. That way, I would be able to grow stronger. Now, despite the years I’ve had to change, they still believe that I am not adequate. I have no choice but to trust that they know best.

“I believe that would be fine.”

“That makes things much easier for us,” Leyama whispers with a shake of her arms. 

My branches quiver at the lie, and I turn my leaves away. Leyama and Alba don’t seem to take notice; they never do.

“Mrs. Carole, my home is open to you! We have finally figured things out!” Leyama mutters to a family of gray squirrels sitting between our roots. I didn’t realize they were there. 

Mrs. Carole, who I assume is the mother, looks up and smiles. Her two children are chasing each other and shouting.

“I’m going to catch you, Hazel!” yells the smallest child.

“Not if I catch you first!”

“Hazel and Lucas, mind your manners! These lovely trees are going to provide us with a home!” The mother says sternly. 

Hazel and Lucas stand at attention and look up at us with gleeful smiles. Their sprightly energy makes my branches point towards the sky, despite myself. Leyama says they can climb up her trunk and into her leaves to rest. The family scurries up and settles on a long branch that is stretching out in my direction.

Suddenly, I feel something on my arm. It’s Mrs. Carole.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Carole.”

“Hello, dear. Might I ask what your name is?”

“Solan.”

“Why, that is a lovely name. Might I ask why you aren’t housing anyone? Not to be rude, of course.” Mrs. Carole fidgets on my branch and rubs her paws together.

I was perplexed that she didn’t seem to notice the browning of my leaves. “It has always been like this.”

“I’m positive that if you tried, housing animals wouldn’t be so difficult. You could start with my family!”

“I don’t want to disappoint anyone, and this is the easiest way to make the neighborhood proud. I’m sorry, it’s simplest for you to stay with Leyama.”

Mrs. Carole is silent for a moment, and I feel as if I offended her somehow. Regret courses through my veins, and I am about to apologize when she starts to speak again.

“No one is perfect, Solan. Even I’m not perfect, but our mistakes don’t define us. It’s what we do to overcome our mistakes and start anew. Take a chance. Maybe you will surprise yourself. I am still leaving open the option for my family to be your trial if you are willing to try something new.”

Days come and go in an enthusiastic tumult. I grow closer to Mrs. Carole and her children. They are the sweetest family I have ever known. They don’t look down on me, they don’t have pity lacing their words in a bitter frost on the leaves, and most of all, they care about my disposition.

But, my answer to house them will not waver. Often, I forget to care for myself; how can I be expected to care for them? 

Regardless, Hazel and Lucas are always the first to greet me in the mornings. The scent of fresh grass cascaded with dew fills the air as the young squirrels munch on acorns. When I play with the children throughout the day, tossing acorns to catch and letting them run around in my branches, I feel something queer inside, warm and comforting. It tugs at my gut with playful pulls and bubbles inside of my sap with every pulse. 

I ask Mrs. Carole what it could be, fearing some sort of disease. I am already frail as it is.

“Well, dear, that tug at your gut is something I like to call Joy. I can tell that you are unfamiliar with it, and I am certainly glad my children have given you some.” Her bell-like laugh tickles the edges of my limbs.

My leaves turn upward as I feel the tug again, Joy. As I listen to the shouts of Hazel and Lucas and hear Mrs. Carole’s protective and kind voice warning them to be careful, the Joy grows and grows until I can’t contain it anymore. Then, I do something that I hadn’t done in decades. I laugh.

My limbs shake. My core feels raw. The rustling of my leaves is unnatural to me, although it is not detestable.

I feel indebted to Mrs. Carole and her children. They have given me Joy. I turn my leaves to Leyama, who is welcoming a new family of robins into her branches. Her whisper tinges with fatigue. 

I know what I have to do, but am I willing? The idea of letting the forest down, of failing to do my part becomes a burden on my branches. My limbs tremble. The air thins. The forest sways. 

Am I capable of providing for this family that I care about so much? That is where I stop myself. I care about this family. I have to trust that I can do it. I have to believe it.

Before I can change my mind or even think of more ways to fail, I ask Leyama a question that I would never have the courage to even think about years ago.

“Leyama, may I house Mrs. Carole and her children this Changing? I am willing to do so and take a burden off your shoulders and onto mine.” I hope she cannot hear the tremor in my murmur.

“Are you sure?” she asks. Her voice wavers amid relief and concern.

“Yes, I am. I am willing and ready to do my part the best I can.”

There is a difference between letting someone visit your home and letting someone stay at your home. I enjoy both, although I never thought it would be possible to say so. 

Mrs. Carole and her family are a delight to have. I love waking up to the sound of their quiet snores, the squeals of delight from Hazel and Lucas as I play with them, and the conversations I have with Mrs. Carole.

Talking with Mrs. Carole is always a delight. Her kind yet wise words help guide me. 

Our conversations start long, lasting from midday to sundown, but they have become shorter. Although the sun shines down hotly, Mrs. Carole claims there is an unusual chill. I don’t know what she is referring to. She seems more drained these days, not as vibrant with her children as she was. It worries me.

“Mrs. Carole, how have you been feeling lately?”

“Fine, just fine. But, my bones do have an odd weariness to them. Not to worry you, dear, but it has been many years since I was young. This winter, I believe I will be doing a lot more sleeping, if anything.”

“You are going to make it through the Winter Changing, right?” my whisper fades at the end. 

She leans against my trunk and sighs, “Turn your leaves to the sky for a moment. It’s filled with heavenly beings that are only visible for a determined amount of time. The sun shines during the day, supplying you with food and giving us warmth. But, although it sets, it still reflects its light through the moon. Its glory is always there, whether we realize it or not. Your trees are like the sun and moon. Your presence is there at all times, never leaving or wavering. It is the glue that holds this place together. And the stars are revealed at night, filling the sky with pinpricks of brilliance. We animals are like the stars. Numerous and bright. You would never know if a star was missing unless you looked close enough. But, the sky never stops its cycle to mourn the star because the stars are not as important.”

She gazes at me with a sad shine in her coal-black eyes and says, “Solan, remember those words for me.”

The Winter Changing comes. The air turns cold and bitter, and the sun’s light is not as warm. Every morning, Mrs. Carole and her children come out from their burrow to watch the sunlight reflect off the snow. 

I wake up early to watch the sunrise. The orange glow shines off the white snow, revealing the true brilliance of that heavenly star. The rays hold no warmth, only a blinding vision of light. Everything has a layer of orange to it, changing the forest from the dark mass it was that night to the cheerful atmosphere during the day. I couldn’t feel happier.

Hazel and Lucas emerge from their burrow. Mrs. Carole does not follow them out like she usually does. The siblings come up to me, their steps slow, and their demeanor different than usual. Something is wrong, very wrong.

“Hazel? Lucas?”

My branches turn to their faces, and tears flow down their fur. Their chests heave up and down in short movements. I know what’s happened before they speak. 

Everything blurs around me in an orange haze. The dark, familiar monster that had terrorized me for years comes back, harsher than ever. Why? Why did this have to happen? What did I do for my life to dip back down into darkness? 

Suddenly, Mrs. Carole’s conversation with me a couple of weeks ago comes back like a strike to the core. 

The stars are not as important.

Did Mrs. Carole not realize that the stars provide radiance? That the stars are accents to the moon and planets, and if one were to pass, the sky would be emptier than before? But, Mrs. Carole struck right about one thing; no one would notice a difference if they didn’t look closely.

Hazel and Lucas climbed up my trunk and sat in my branches, breaking the heavy silence with their quiet sobs. Their cries have grief, with the knowledge of all the time lost and wasted. I can sense the regret. It’s overwhelming.

“Mrs. Carole told me that the animals are like the stars. You know, I just realized that the ones that shine brightest are the ones that you only see once in a while. One second, they are there, and the next, they are gone. But, it provides Joy when seeing that bright star. I believe Mrs. Carole yearns for us to be happy and move on in our lives, but it will take exertion. We may not be able to continue our lives immediately, but it’s our duty to her to at least try.” My branches quiver after my monologue. Why is maintaining Joy so demanding?

Hazel and Lucas’ cries have subsided to the occasional sniff, and they gaze at me with the same coal-black eyes as Mrs. Carole. I sense her in them. This realization makes my Joy easier to preserve.

“I promise to watch and protect these stars with all I have,” I whisper to the sky, “and sustain joy as I do it.”

More Changings come and go. Hazel and Lucas’ stars dim and disappear, and new stars illuminate the neighborhood. The sun and moon stay consistent as they always should.

After the Summer Changing has come once again, I wake up to a sign of death. My friends’ trunks have orange strikes.

I have only heard tales of these markers of death. A forest a few miles away had been chopped down decades ago, with the same orange stripes painted onto their trunks. I look down and see the paint on my bark and quiver in fear; I’m not ready to die. There is still so much I haven’t accomplished. So many things I still need to do to make up for the years lost. I made a promise to Mrs. Carole.

I yell out to the neighborhood to wake everyone up, “EVERYONE!”

They all are startled out of their sleep as they turn to me in apprehension. 

“Everyone, the sign of death is among us. But don’t panic. Warn the animals to flee while they still can. We must save the stars!” I rustle my branches in conviction.

Alba, the leader that he is, supports my cry.

Rabbits bound over roots. Deer sprint across the forest floor. Birds soar across the air. Squirrels leap from tree to tree.

Before I know it, the forest is empty of noise. The wind rustles through our leaves. The stars are secure.

Soon, a rumbling fills the quiet. The stinging stench of gasoline violates the clean breeze. A monster enters, tearing us down left and right with its massive teeth. Even if we could go from our posts, there is no way to escape.

The buzzing of electricity is only interrupted by the sudden chop and thud of a fallen tree. All around me, my friends fall. First Alba, then Leyama, then others. Their bright green leaves litter the bright green grass.

I look around at the forest, the sun shining more freely on those still standing, including me. The heat is intolerable. The fumes are toxic. The machine moves leisurely now. The air is stagnant. I watch the killer as it approaches closer and closer. The stench grows until I can barely sense the world around me. 

I turn my branches to the sky, leaves upward as I realize that I will finally be able to see Mrs. Carole again. My faded leaves spread around me, covering the forest ground one last time.

Constellations

Arpana Viswanathan, Short Story. Grade 9, Sidwell Friends Upper School, Washington, D.C. Best-in-Grade Award 2021

When she was seven my sister told me she wanted to live forever.

We were skipping across the rooftop, thrilled by our escape from the claustrophobic chatter of the party below. Cold air thrilled us. The wind just barely touched our cheeks before swishing away. I stared in awe as the sun dipped just below the horizon, illuminating the sky in cotton-candy pink and New Year’s red.

“The sun is setting,” Lynn explained as she dropped to the ground, hugging her knees close to her chest. She wore the same expression she always did. Distant but thoughtful, as if she was listening intently as the horizon whispered its secrets.

“It’s going away?” I was four, concerned only with sidewalk chalk and the transience of the day.

Lynn smiled softly. When she smiled her eyes sparkled. The last vestiges of sunset glimmered in her almond eyes, inherited from our omma. “The sun always sets, Annie. Don’t worry, it’ll be back tomorrow.”

I gazed at the sky. “Why is the sky red?”

“It’s New Year’s. Red is our lucky color. You know that.”

“Like fire.”

“Yes, like fire.”

“Is the sun made of fire?”

“Yes. It is the brightest fire you’ve ever seen, isn’t it?”

I giggled. “Bright,” I repeated. I often did that when Lynn said something, just to savor her words. “What happens when the sun sets?”

Lynn grinned mischievously. “See those lights in the sky?”

I nodded.

“Those are stars. They watch over us in the night.”

“Do those set too?” I was concerned, ever resistant to change.

“No, they don’t. The stars are always there, even when we can’t see them. They’re immortal.” She paused, the smile fading a little. “See those stars grouped together? That’s Samtaesong. He slew a dragon.”

“A dragon!” Lynn knew I was fascinated by them.

“That’s right. He’s an immortal guardian.”

“What’s immortal?”

“You ask too many questions, hyung-ah,” Lynn said, but she was smiling. “It’s where you live forever. Like the stars. You’d see the world until the end of time. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

The wind swished around us again, the sound our breathing lost in the gusts. I marveled in the feel of the cold air. I barely caught Lynn’s next words.

“I wish I could live forever.”

* * *

I was six when I realized Lynn would not live forever. I realized by the sounds of the car as Lynn and my parents returned from that fateful doctor’s appointment. Gears ground lethargically against each other, the engine humming a slow and mournful tune. I could not quite place it then, but the car was already broken. Our little family would soon break too.

 I ran to hug Lynn, her arms grasping me as tight as they always did. “Unnie!” I exclaimed, relieved she was back. She ruffled my hair, grinning at me as she always did.

“You went to scary needle man!” Apprehensive of needles and strangers, I had officially given the doctor that label. I looked at Lynn worshipfully; somehow she was not scared of the needle man. She had always been braver than me.

“Yes, we did.” Lynn told me quietly. “I got a lollipop for you.”

I grasped the candy in delight.

My parents, who had been speaking in hushed tones, came over to us. Worry was written all over their features. Even at six, I could feel the air chill.

“Annie, Lynn, ttaldeul.” Appa only called us that when we were in trouble. I clung onto Lynn’s arm.

“The doctor—needle man,” he corrected, and I nodded approvingly at him, “—told us that Lynn has a disease.”

I scrunched up my nose. “Disease?” The word tasted metallic on my tongue, like blood.

“Sickle cell anemia.” My omma liked facts. She said the words like a lifeline, as if specificity made the news less awful. “Her blood cells are sickle-shaped instead of round. They can’t carry oxygen through her body. Omma paused. I noticed her knuckles turned purple as they dug crescents into her palms. “It’s an inherited disease.”

I didn’t understand much except for the grave tone with which she spoke. “What’s a sickle?” I asked too many questions. There was so much I wanted to understand about the world.

Lynn spoke when omma did not. “It’s like a crescent, Annie.” She smiled despite the gravity of the scene. “Like a crescent moon. You like the moon.”

“Lynn has moons in her blood?” I was awestruck, smiling now. Such was the power of Lynn.

“Yes. It’s a great power, but sometimes it’s too much. The moons can make me sick.” Her smile did not waver.

“You can handle the power! I know you can.” My faith in Lynn was resolute, unmoving like the stars. She was special, different; she could harness the power of the moon.

Lynn was never unsure either. She smiled at me affectionately. “I’ll try, hyung-ah.”

* * *

Lynn loved adventure.

After school, we would make the long trek to Ms. Chu’s apartment next door. She was an elderly woman, a kind old Korean lady who had no children of her own. Her apartment smelled like roses, the dead kind. Like something that used to be beautiful but had lost its fragrance. Lynn always said it smelled of “familiarity.” I didn’t quite know what the word meant. I only knew the way it sounded on her tongue, like putting on old boots whose worn soles molded to your feet perfectly. I liked that feeling, reveled in the way Lynn said her “f’s” and “l’s”.

When I asked about why Ms. Chu looked like a raisin, her eyes disappearing into her wrinkled, shriveled skin, Lynn reprimanded me for my rudeness. I did not yet know the ways of decorum. Lynn told me Ms. Chu had been the most beautiful woman in Korea when she was younger. I could not imagine it. The only beauty I knew was the glimmer in Lynn’s eyes and the brightness of the stars, both immortal in my mind. Perhaps beauty was not permanent. Perhaps permanence was not “familiar.”

Lynn liked the unknown. When we finished with our homework, Ms. Chu would let us sit on her faded rug, watching Korean dramas on her small television. There were no subtitles. Barely able to understand English, I was frustrated by the rapid dialogue which I could not interpret. Reality only existed in tangible things. To my six-year-old self, Korean was not tangible.

Lynn didn’t understand Korean either but she watched the dramas with fascination. The world of chaotic fighting and sappy romances seemed so removed to me. When Jeong-hoon died and then came back to life in season three of Heartstrings I told her, “Lynn, this is silly. People don’t come back from the dead.” I had just begun to understand then, that death was as immortal as the stars.

She told me, “Shhh, Annie. I’m watching.”

Of course, I loved watching crazy dramas on a small television in a pungent apartment. I reveled in the familiarity of worn but soft carpet, the black-and-white pictures that scattered Ms. Chu’s walls of long-past memories. I thought about what Lynn said, about living forever. If I could live forever to watch Korean dramas every day, I would. Even if I hated them.

In between scenes of action-packed fights and sappy proclamations of unrequited love, Ms. Chu regaled us with her own dramas. She told us one day of her former love. “Dong-hyun was his name,” she recounted. “I loved him but my parents did not approve. He came from a poor family, you see.” She sighed. “I ran away with him. Nearly got hit by a car in the process, too.”

Lynn was enthralled by the adventures of Ms. Chu’s youth. “I wish I was in love,” she said yearningly. “Or almost hit by a car. I want to do something exciting. Wouldn’t that be exciting, Annie?”

Ever the realist, I was scornful of Ms. Chu’s silly stories. “What happened to him?” I asked her, my voice full of disdain.

“Even love does not always last.” Ms. Chu said. I decided then that I did not want love. My sister and the stars were all I needed.

* * *

What I said earlier wasn’t true. Lynn was unsure only once.

When I was ten and Lynn was thirteen, my aunt Eun-Kyung came home. I hadn’t seen her in nearly seven years. She had run off with an American, my parents told me, and my grandparents had stopped speaking to her. “Aren’t we Americans?” I asked, remembering the stars and stripes of the flag that watched over my fourth-grade classroom.

“Yes, but we’re Korean at heart, Annie-ya. Americans are different. They hurt us sometimes,” my omma said. My grandparents were angry at Eun-Kyung, but omma was not. She was concerned.

It was New Year’s again. Lynn and I had stayed up past our bedtime folding and crimping mandu dumplings. Afterward, we sat whispering in the dark as Lynn pointed out the constellations in the sky, Cheonsang and Samtaesong and the other immortal gods that resided in the heavens. I no longer asked so many questions; now I was the one telling Lynn the stories I had read in our old family books of Korean mythology. While I had realized by then that dragons weren’t real, I knew Lynn liked hearing about them. She liked what was unknown, what was far away. My appa often said her head was in the stars. I loved that about Lynn. She was a dreamer.

She still looked at the sky as if she heard its secrets. Only Lynn could gaze at the stars and make them twinkle like that.

I was telling her for the fourth time how Samtaesong slew the dragon when we heard the door bang. Lynn put her arms around me protectively. She knew I didn’t like sudden noises. I would always be the one to scream during the jump scares in Ms. Chu’s dramas.

I heard omma’s footsteps first, then saw a woman in drenched clothes with almond eyes. She looked familiar.

“Eun-Kyung,” Lynn whispered to me. She knew how I liked answers. “Our aunt. You haven’t seen her in a while.”

I heard raised voices but couldn’t quite make out the words. Eun-Kyung’s face was contorted by her hysterics, hands slicing the stillness of the night. Omma put her hand on her with the same protectiveness Lynn had with me. Such a bond was permanent, never changing, though they hadn’t talked in years. We learned once in school that matter could never be created or destroyed. The love between sisters was the same.

“This is what he did to me!” Eun-Kyung’s voice held real terror. Her words broke the silence of our little house, the familiar quiet of the night. I would never forget them.

In the silvery light of the moon, I saw her skin, colored the blue-black color of a murky pond across her eye and cheeks. What seemed to hurt her most, though, was not where her husband’s palm had struck her face, where love shattered like glass dropped on concrete. She clutched desperately at invisible fingerprints marking her body. She could not seem to get rid of them. I was beginning to realize there were far worse things than pain.

I looked at Lynn for answers. She was the one who gave me answers. She did not know then, her expression more distant than ever. She could no longer hear the secrets of the sky.

* * *

I was sixteen when I started giving Lynn the answers.

The power of the moon became too much for her. It started with a cold; she was coughing a little bit, and then more and more. In typical Lynn fashion, she said she was fine so I would not worry. Omma gave her yukaejang, spicy beef soup. It always seemed to make Lynn better when she was sick. But this time her illness grew worse. Her hands and feet swelled. She was tired all the time. When she started coughing up blood, my parents took her to the hospital. I stared at the bloodstains on her sheets for a little too long, thinking of her crescent-shaped blood cells.

My parents sent me to live with Ms. Chu. I didn’t like watching her dramas without Lynn. Korean was no longer so foreign to me after years of practice and mastery, but I still didn’t understand them. The world of Jeong-hoon and Byeol seemed so fast-moving, so chaotic, like the sun leaving the world too quickly as it sets below the horizon.

After a week, they allowed me to visit Lynn. I stayed up past my bedtime researching sickle cell anemia. I knew already that she was not sick because she had moons in her blood. Somehow I wanted to go back to believing that.

I think I knew what was going to happen when I visited Lynn that day. Her face was pale, shadows marking her eyes. She coughed, but no bloodstains marked her stark white hospital sheets. At least not yet.

Worst of all, her eyes seemed so dull. She had lost the glimmer of the stars, no longer looked so intently at the horizon when the sun left and the moon came up. She was leaving us, dyeing the sky New Year’s red as she dipped below the horizon.

“Your blood cells are breaking apart,” I told her, my hands fidgeting nervously behind my back. I understood now why omma relied on facts. Blood cells were so much easier to comprehend than the possibility of Lynn being gone. “They’re accumulating and blocking your blood vessels. It might lead to pulmonary hypertension or acute chest syndrome.” I looked at her beseechingly. “Lynn, you could try to get a blood transfusion.”

She was looking out the window, where stars dotted the velvety night sky. Her eyes did not seem to really see them. “You know, in Ms. Chu’s time, there was less light pollution. They could see the stars better, hyung-ah.” Lynn hadn’t called me hyung-ah since I was ten. She was not one to live in the past; she liked adventures and the unknown. She was so resigned now.

I indulged her. “We have longer life expectancy now. Modern medicine. That’s better than seeing some silly stars, Lynn.”

Lynn did not quite seem to hear me. She still gazed out the window, her eyes lackluster. “You were always so cynical, hyung-ah.” She laughed softly, the condescending laugh adults used to give me when I asked too many questions. Lynn had never done that.

“Don’t you want to live forever? Like Samtaesong, remember?” My voice quavered. I was afraid of her answer.

She laughed in that condescending way again. “Oh, Annie. I don’t want to live forever. Life is beautiful because it is short.” I did not understand what she meant.

* * *

The next few months passed by faster than Jeong-hoon’s and Byeol’s season six romance. I remember brief flashes.

My parents argued with the doctor. Omma had read that chemotherapy could alleviate the symptoms of Lynn’s disease. I remembered when Byeol went through chemotherapy for pancreatic cancer on Heartstrings. She lost all her beautiful shiny hair. I couldn’t imagine Lynn bald.

Ms. Chu told me more stories of her youth. I asked her more questions about her former loves and why they didn’t last. She told me Lynn would be fine. I wanted to believe her.

I visited a flower shop. I wanted to know what Ms. Chu’s apartment had smelled like before, the scent of roses when they were still alive. They were vividly red, like our lucky red on New Year’s. I didn’t like the smell. It was too perfumed, too unfamiliar. Maybe I liked dead roses better. I picked one to take for Lynn.

* * *

The day she died, I could have sworn she was asleep. The doctor told me her blood had failed her, that she’d had a stroke. All I could see was her face, pale as the moon, her eyes closed so they would never look at the stars again. She died in the night, my parents said, in her sleep. She was at peace. In my heart, I knew the power of the crescent moons had been too much for her to handle. Even Lynn was only mortal.

I thought about what she had said, about life being beautiful because it was short. In school we had learned about supernovas; stars that burned too hot and bright to exist any longer. They would explode in a shower of colored sparks, a death beautiful and terrible at the same time. Lynn was a supernova.

Star matter was constantly being reused, the remnants of supernovas creating the periodic table as we know it. Without death, we would not have life. Without Lynn, I would not have my life. If she was a supernova, then the remains of her star matter were left all over me; her writing in our mythology books, her hand pointing out the constellations every time I looked at the sky. Her fingerprints were as invisible but permanent as the ones on Eun-Kyung’s body. In a way, Lynn did live forever. Her moonlight still gave the world a silvery glow when all else was quiet and dark.

Her covers were dotted with blood, New Year’s red. She had lucky moons, I thought again.

The funeral went by so fast. Perhaps it would be a story I would tell someday, like Ms. Chu. Like the legend of Samtaesong. The coffin was too small and too big at the same time, her body still childlike but her spirit larger than any box. Before they lowered her into the ground, never to see the sky again, I laid a single red rose on her chest. It was dead already, petals crumpling as I tucked it in like a child. A final goodbye. One last answer to give her. A reminder that the sun always sets but the stars are there forever.

SIDNEY PRESCOTT

Dante Begay, Poetry. Grade 10, New Mexico School for the Arts, Santa Fe, NM. Best-in-Grade Award 2021

i.
Today, I discovered that my mother sold her eyes 
        to a man who equated currency with an ugly 
word that she banned from my mouth.
     He refused the taxes, and burned the bank to linoleum tiles.
           We are in debt. The topic of the marbles in my skull is a novel dinner discussion.
    ii.
The will left me four things:
Silk sheets that distorted my reflection
    and retained so much heat, winter was a reprieve.
A bowl of soup, with undercooked limbs floating over
    ginger-flavored water that I will not eat.
A collection of shot glasses from Jerusalem and
    the throes of Las Vegas.
And finally: a wire hanger indented with a man’s
    Adam’s apple and a woman’s excavated heart.
        iii.
Her timer for joy had gone out the moment she
    saw the double lines—| |—spelling out
    another year, another man, another life that 
she did not want.
            iv.
There is a man at the bottom of the stairs, a blind man,
who swears he can still see.
The only thing he hands down to his daughter is a boyfriend
    who scrapes the cranberries and bread on his plate
    onto his mother’s. 
        She wants to ask—will I grow a beard like yours?
            Will I go blind too? Can I sleep?
            Can I just have your sweater?

Elegy to Margaret

Jack Goodman, Poetry. Grade 11, Walter Payton College Preparatory High School, Chicago, IL. Best-in-Grade Award 2021

I’m told you’ve learned to tell
fresh fish from their black marble eyes—
glazed like calloused fingers, guitar strings
caked in dust and dried blood.
You always did like fish.
Let’s go to the river, you’d say,
and I’d happily oblige. I wouldn’t
notice any scars. Look at the rocks.
Watch—they stand up to the current.
You liked to stumble across them,
cutting through the river
like a butter knife through stitches. 
The rocks got shy in spring,
you said, scared of cherry blossoms
and new beginnings. I just thought
the water rose, but spring had never
been your season, so shy rocks it was.
Fall was best. There were salmon
in fall, ones you could fillet
with the knife you kept at home.

I pushed past an old lady on the bus today, 
Margaret—you would’ve been proud.
Her hair rolled in rows of rising bread.
When I apologized, she scoffed with a disdain
only the French can muster. I retreated
into a back seat between the pages of a YA novel.
I wonder if she reads much poetry. I don’t, 
but we would talk, and that was almost the same.

Sometimes, I cry.
You once told me that’s healthy, voice
lacquered with electrical tape, persimmon. 
You’d tell me that somewhere, fresh snow
is blanketing spring’s first buds. They tell me 
you moved upstate, but I know.
Last night, I named a star for you.
It’s not the bright one south of Orion’s Belt,
but the dim one just beneath—I’m saving 
the bright one for me. You’d find that funny,
having a star, like you’re some big Greek hero.
It’s just you and Andromeda up there, Margaret.
You and Andromeda and God.

uncle sam

Alana Kabaka, Poetry. Grade 12, Benilde-St. Margaret’s School, St. Louis Park, MN. Best-in-Grade Award 2021

how to place a child in a casket step-by-step guide 

step one 
birth a black boy  
from a black womb 
and raise it in a black family 
with the knowledge of the world 
teach him to be good 
to be sweet 
and humble 
kind 
and composed 
remind him to be scared 
because the world is scary 
because uncle sam ain’t looking out 
and he’s not really your uncle 
and teach him to keep his hands out of his pockets 
and his hood down
and his head up 
and not to look at nobody
and to keep his arms crossed 
and his eyes closed 
and to grow comforted 
in his child-sized coffin 

step two 
let your child be a child  
and people will find a way to turn 
to turn boys into men 
and turn black hands into weapons 
and put bullets into melanin-pantied backs  
because i guess that’s where they belong 

step three 
let the world do its thing 
and it will
put black bodies in caskets 
put bullets in backs 
and babies in body bags  
take a child’s childhood 
and make it a game of cops and robbers 

step four 
say goodbye 
and remember that this was bound to happen 
because he’s black and breathing and alive 
look down in his casket
tell him you love him 
even before his brains bashed into cold concrete 
carry his weight on your back 
and let his name find camp in your eardrums 
and let memories play like movies in your mind 
take a step back look into his eyes one more time
then 
shut the child-size casket  

step five
repeat.  

Featured image: Nicholas Mao, Potato and Onion, Drawing & Illustration. Grade 7, Home School, Alpharetta, GA. Best-in-Grade Award 2021