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  So much goes unsaid between a mother and a daughter. As we drove south, the quiet in the car was so absolute I could almost hear the individual drops of rain as they collected one by one on the windshield. I turned from her, and exhaled hot steam on the window. Out of her line of vision, I began to run my finger over the glass, etching out all that I could never say to her face.

  “Why does this always happen?” she said, breaking me from my trance. I peeked over my shoulder to see her talking to the long, empty road.

  “Can you chill?” My patience was wearing thin, and I’d been in the car for far too long. I slumped back in my seat, pulling my seatbelt strap over my head—which she hates—and pushed in my earbuds.

  Staring absently out of the scribble-covered window, I began to reminisce about the delights of Christmas two days ago—as if! Aunt Cathy, dressed to the nines in awful character shoes and an uppity demeanor, complete with a frilly gingham apron, had shaken me awake.

  Cheers to the holiday spirit, I guess. But it wasn’t until later that things took a turn for the terrible. I’d managed to spend the day dodging family members, but dinner was, unfortunately, inevitable. The food was inscrutable, and Aunt Cathy jumped at every opportunity to blame Mom for why Dad, to use her words, “turned out like that.” Which of course was no one’s fault but his own.

  By the time we made it to the winding road that led to Beaufort County Airport, I had managed to calm down a bit, but I could tell by Mom’s tight jaw that she had not.

  I knew what she was thinking, and I couldn’t help but agree. This would never happen at JFK. This place was a joke. One runway, two hangars, and a staff that seemed as sad as the disheveled building they worked inside.

  She parked the car and exited, slamming the door as she did. Scrambling after her, through the smudged glass doors, I waited for her to make sure I was behind her. She didn’t.

  When we reached the end of the expanse of worn carpet and approached the squirrelly attendant, I expected her to take her frustrations out on him. Instead, she gave a weak “Excuse me.” If only she would be half as aggressive with others as she was with me. “How may I help you?” he responded robotically. As my mother began to recount the events of the last few days, his eyes glazed over.

  “Yes, you see, our bags—”

  “Our bags with all our Christmas presents. And all our clothes,” I interrupted, gesturing to the awful argyle sweater I had to borrow from Cathy.

  Mom flashed me a glare, her “be polite” look. I rolled my eyes, opting to preserve both of our sanities, and stepped back, leaving her to plead our case.

  I found the corner farthest from Mom, next to a pathetic, plastic Christmas tree devoid of lights, and plopped onto the ground.

  I was no stranger to disappointing Christmases or ugly Christmas trees. The last time I spoke to my father the tree stood bare. He had called from “the road”—always his nondescript location when I asked where he was. I’d try to fill in the blanks about my father, known to me as the man who always let us down.

  He would call from hotel rooms or diners, check in and make promises we both knew he couldn’t keep. One week before Christmas he called from a bar. I could hear the sound of pool balls clacking into each other as I asked if he would be home for Christmas.

  “Of course I will, baby,” he said. I thought he sounded giddy. Now I know he sounded drunk. “Don’t decorate the tree without me.” And so we didn’t. At that point I still had a little blind trust in him. Mom and I read The Polar Express again and pretended we weren’t disappointed, an art we seemed to have perfected by then.

  I turned toward the sad baggage-claim tree and box of tangled lights sitting below it and remembered how he sucked the cheer out of that Christmas and every Christmas since.

  When I noticed Mom returning, I could tell the news was grim by her pursed lips. I could read her so easily, and even that annoyed me about her.

  “They’ve asked us to wait. They’re ‘still looking,’ ” she said.

  “We could always go back to the city,” I suggested halfheartedly.

  “Devan,” she said sternly, “You know Cathy and her family are the closest we can get to—”

  “Yeah, I know … I never wanted to come here, anyway,” I mumbled. The fact that Cathy and the scumbag that turned our lives upside down share the same blood is all the more reason to steer clear.

  “What was that?” Mom said, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “You never wanted to come here? You did, once. You liked the fields, the plane rides, the skateboards from Cathy and Greg. I’ve brought you back, year after year. Do you think my ideal Christmas includes eating collard greens and being constantly reminded I’m unwelcome? But I tolerate it for you, Devan. It’s all for you,” she finished fiercely, leaving me struck silent.

  “I only act okay with it because I feel like you need it or something. I go along with it for you.”

  I heard something I hadn’t in a while. She began to laugh. She dropped down next to me on the floor and put her hand on my knee. She looked at me with those guarded eyes, lit up by humor, and said, “If I’m here for you and you’re here for me, then who the heck are we doing this for?”

  “I’d love to just have a regular Christmas, the two of us. You know, putting lights on the tree and making cookies or something.” I shrugged, blinking back tears.

  “Maybe we still can.” She leaned on my shoulder. “See that poor, scraggly tree over there?” I nodded. “How about we spruce it up?”

  She crawled toward the box of lights. I loved seeing her that way, gleeful and carefree. She laid the mass of cords across our laps and we began the tedious work of picking out the knots. A grueling ten minutes later, we had draped the fluorescent lights on the tree—quite magnificently, I might add. I hummed “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

  “It finally does,” she murmured, flashing me a rare, fleeting smile.

  We heard the sound of the attendant’s asthmatic breath behind us. “Your luggage.” He nodded at our bags, dirty and rumpled but in one piece nonetheless. He left as quickly as he came, turning a blind eye to our post-Christmas decorating.

  “Oh! I got you a present,” she said, unzipping her bag and producing a tiny box. Inside was a single silver bell, not dissimilar to the ones we read about in The Polar Express.

  “Well, this is awkward …” I rummaged through my bag and fished out its twin. We hung them on the tree and watched them glint beside each other. We smiled. This time, nothing needed to be said.

  Walking away from the bit of holiday magic we created, I swear I could hear the delicate clinking of silver bells.

  NAOMI HABTU

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Ethical Culture Fieldston School

  BORN: Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I was recently diagnosed with anxiety, even though it is something that has always been present in my life. It’s limiting and painful, and has prevented me from enjoying some of my favorite hobbies and even doing simple daily tasks. But I’ve been making a conscious effort to not let anxiety control me. Being able to write these poems is proof that I’m getting somewhere, especially because of my mentor, Kristen, who propels me forward. Whether through timed free-writes or helpful advice, she always encourages me to push my pen and keep going.

  KRISTEN GAERLAN

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 2

  OCCUPATION: Freelance Senior Copywriter

  BORN: Bronx, NY

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: “Pig on a Stick,” The Rumpus; “Grandma Has to Go,” Sheepshead Review; “Instagram Tips for Your Self-Absorbed Trip to Iceland,” McSweeney’s

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Once a timid mentee uncertain of her writing, Naomi has since grown in confidence and tackled assignments with dedication. When she first read her poetry aloud, I was amazed by her passion and resolve. That’s why, whe
never she shares her doubts as a writer, I listen. The conversation seems pressing. Its resolution feels important. I feel compelled to help. So I wrote this piece with her and girls like her in mind. Maybe it’s my way of passing along the support I’ve been given. Maybe it’s because I’ve been in her shoes. Maybe it’s because I still am.

  Cycles, Words, Spirits, and Flow

  NAOMI HABTU

  I get really anxious about writing, so I decided to write about being anxious.

  Cycles

  Every morning the sun announces a new day

  Every night the sky falls over you like a blanket

  Every day you wake up and soak in the air around you

  As it goes through your lungs and into your bloodstream

  Every second your cells regenerate allowing you to evolve

  The tides roll in just enough to kiss your toes with a cold touch

  The gears of this world are always turning

  Never stopping

  Never waiting for you to catch up

  Grab sand from the hourglass

  Stop the gears from turning

  It slowly slips between your fingers

  Grain by grain

  The tides roll in just enough to kiss your toes with a cold touch

  Don’t try to stop the sand from spilling

  For the grains will always drop one by one

  Every morning the sun announces a new day

  Every night the dark sky falls over you like a blanket

  Every day you wake up and soak in the air around you

  As it goes through your lungs and into your bloodstream

  Every second your cells regenerate allowing you to evolve

  Soak in the air around you

  Don’t grab the sand, don’t grab the

  Sand

  Just let it fall

  You can’t stop the clock from ticking

  The hands will keep moving

  But you can continue to move just as it does

  Words

  I used to effortlessly spit out words onto paper

  Letting stories unfold

  The song came naturally

  Like the hums of a humming bird spreading its wings

  But now I have to dig

  Dig deep into the earthly ground

  With dirt, rocks, and worms

  Preventing me from reaching my words

  And when I am so close

  They fall deeper into the ground

  Right when I was about to reach out

  And grasp them

  Spirit

  I try to hold you like a thin piece of glass

  Hanging on to your smile, your love, your essence,

  Afraid they will blow away in the wind

  But sometimes my palms get sweaty

  So, I try to catch you before you crash

  Your image is blurry, my mind stays numb, mixing memories

  I try so hard not to forget

  But it’s hard to see you when you’re not there

  It’s hard to hold on to something when it’s not physical

  Flow

  When I think of you,

  I feel sunlight shining through my heart.

  Through my arteries, through my veins

  The warmth and golden light reaching every part of my body.

  Thinking of you makes me smile,

  I look up at the sky and smile,

  I look up at the clouds, picturing you smiling down at me, and I smile.

  But then my smile fades away when I remember that you are up there

  And I am down here.

  It makes me happy to know that you are up there,

  But sad to know that we are not together.

  God lifted you up, and now you are in eternal serenity

  And I am here missing you,

  Missing you forever until I join you,

  I hope I will join you.

  Until then that sadness spins into tear drops that fall from my eyes,

  And roll down my cheeks and go past my mouth so I can taste the salt.

  The bitter, sour, salty, taste of my tears resembles my feelings inside,

  All mixed up making my stomach feel uneasy.

  Sometimes I cry so much I can barely breathe.

  I struggle to inhale oxygen and exhale it.

  I struggle to let it in and let it out.

  I feel like I am drowning as I am gasping for air.

  I struggle to feel the pain, let it in, and let it out.

  In and out

  In and out, as I struggle to breathe.

  My chest moving up and down

  Trying to catch the air chasing for it.

  Let it out.

  But always after the storm winds down,

  I breathe.

  I can breathe.

  I can let it in

  And let it out.

  My mind feels clear as if the gray clouds that poured out heavy tears have cleared up.

  Leaving an arch of colors left to marvel at.

  After I let it out, I can let it all in.

  Let all the beauty of my surroundings in.

  My smile slowly returns when I remember that you are up there,

  But you were once down here,

  And I am eternally grateful to know that I knew you,

  And that you were mine.

  The Impostor

  KRISTEN GAERLAN

  Self-doubt can be one of our biggest challenges both as writers and as women. How do we fight this battle? By being bold enough to know our worth.

  Hearing the phrase for the first time felt like receiving a diagnosis. Impostor syndrome. The inability to internalize one’s accomplishments due to a persistent fear of being exposed as a fraud. People afflicted by this condition believe themselves to be impostors who don’t deserve praise despite evidence of their achievements. I never heard of the term before, but when I did, it felt familiar.

  Our keynote speaker was an accomplished screenwriter. She stood on stage and cited impostor syndrome as one of the greatest hurdles in her Hollywood career. Recognizing this common condition was comforting but poorly timed. I had only a few minutes to spare before my own presentation. My coworker Bizzy and I were giving a crash course on copywriting. A topic we thought would be exciting for a writing conference amidst the buzz of Mad Men. Then, we saw our stiff competition: “Writing for Late-Night Television,” “How to Create a Podcast,” and “Publishing for Fiction Writing.”

  Although Bizzy wore an encouraging smile, our PowerPoint was still displayed to an empty lecture room minutes before our start time. Then one head poked through the doorway and asked if she was in the right place. Then, another and another. Attendees included published writers, grad students, and individuals whose careers were far departed from writing.

  My writer’s bio always lacked the experience, degrees, and publications I assumed everyone else had. I was fully convinced I was an impostor. But in this room, I was respected as a writer—in solidarity with roughly thirty other writers from various journeys. By the end of the presentation, a few attendees thanked us for helping them navigate their careers. I don’t think any of them realized how much they helped me navigate mine.

  After the conference, the speakers celebrated at a nearby bar. Bizzy excitedly introduced me to a woman dressed in every color imaginable but mostly purple. “She’s a copywriter turned playwright. You two should talk!” She gave me a wink and left.

  “Uh, hi! I cohosted with Bizzy. I’m a copywriter … trying to be a writer writer.” My words trailed off. Caveats begged to burst through my elevator speech. Noise from the bar overpowered my voice. Then, the woman lifted her purple sleeve to my ear. She wanted to make sure I heard her.

  “Listen,” she said, “do you write?”

  I nodded.

  “Then that’s it. You’re a writer.”

  IRENE HAO

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Sophomore

  HIGH SCHOOL: Stuyvesant High Scho
ol

  BORN: New York, NY

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Published in Teen Ink

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I’ve read my work to people before. To myself. To my sister. To my classmates. But never to someone who will spend time with me to go over every line, every worry, every piece. But reading a poem I’d written freshman year to Lauren at the Whole Foods café in October, I found myself excited to share more. Lauren has introduced me to so much—to a magazine, to opportunities, to a new habit of using Google Calendar so much it’s become more like multicolored time slots atop one another than a calendar. I’m so grateful for what we have now.

  LAUREN VESPOLI

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Senior Editor, The National

  BORN: New Haven, CT

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Over the holidays, Irene and I followed through on one of our fall goals: to take ourselves outside of the Whole Foods café we usually write in and go to a museum. We ended up visiting MoMA and had a lot of fun exploring the peculiar Bruce Nauman exhibit, which we later used—how else—as inspiration for a writing exercise. I’m always impressed by Irene’s sharp observations of the world around her, whether she’s commenting on a piece of art, recommending an anime show I should watch, or digesting the world through her poetry or high-concept science fiction.

  the day never looked so red

  IRENE HAO

  Red and yellow—together they make orange. These warm colors can be bold. Being bold is being yourself. Because we are bold. We’ve always been bold. We just need to see the colors around us.

  Red is my favorite color

  The shade of leaves in the crisp autumn

  The light that stops traffic for me

  The ruby lipstick option that I tried on the Kylie Jenner Instagram filter

  The color that will never look good on me

  Red is a color I sometimes dislike

  The spicy peppers and kimchi my parents will always sneak onto my plate

  The pen my grammar-oriented English teacher loves to correct and grade my essay