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  I didn’t win any senior superlatives in high school. I wasn’t voted Best Hair or Most Likely to Succeed. But if Most Improved had been a category, I’m willing to bet it would have been mine.

  Each time I’d hear my name called out, I’d smile and dutifully come forward to accept my prize. But the truth is, I used to hate this award. As accolades go, it felt like a backhanded compliment. Most Improved is not the kind of award you display in a trophy case. It is not a tribute to excellence. It is a recognition of growth relative only to oneself. A terrible swimmer who started out as a drowning hazard could win Most Improved. The slowest runner on the track team could—and probably did—win Most Improved.

  I know the coaches and teachers and camp counselors who handed out this “honor” intended to applaud how far I had come, but to me it only signaled how much further I had to go than everyone else.

  “Congrats, kid!” I could hear them saying. “You used to be a whole lot worse.”

  But that was then. Now, approaching three decades of life, I am finally ready to embrace my unwanted title. I’ve come to realize that, in the end, the only goal is growth. The only person any of us is actually competing with is ourselves.

  And you know what that means …

  Baby, I’m winning.

  SHARI-JADE DALEY

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Pace High School

  BORN: Portmore, Jamaica

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Youth Voice Award

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I didn’t expect to get into Girls Write Now, but when I did, I met Olivia. First of all, her accent is ten out of ten would recommend to others, and her laugh is just great. I’ve learned to take feedback and open up a bit more. She lets me rant about life and offers advice, which I do appreciate. The best part is the different places I get to go to. I don’t get out much, but with Olivia I know I’m doing something exciting. Anyway, she’s funny and cool and I love spending time with her.

  OLIVIA GOLDHILL

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Reporter, Quartz

  BORN: London, England

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Published in Quartz

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I never know what Shari’s going to say, but I know it’s usually going to make me laugh. She’s very frank and observant, and is funny without even trying. I’ve loved getting to know Shari and her writing over the past few months. She’s written a lengthy, several-chapters-long piece of fiction in our time together, and I’m always amazed by how much she writes, so easily, and her striking voice. Shari is an incredibly thoughtful person with a very strong personality, and I really look forward to our evenings together every week.

  the inner workings of a black girl

  SHARI-JADE DALEY

  I was inspired by The Catcher in the Rye and the character Holden when I was creating this piece. It captures truth and the reality in certain situations. Hope you like it.

  My thoughts become fatal to the instability of my preexisting relationships. It affects the way I want to reach out. To you. To everyone. It determines the cause. It determines my love and my hate. My thoughts tell me it’s okay to cry. Over and over again. It tells me to think. To continue telling myself it’s not fair. That I don’t deserve it. My thoughts tell me that I can’t be happy. I’m good at the sad thing. I’m good at pretending. My mind is active and it repeats events. It repeats mistakes. It repeats. It repeats. It repeats. Over and over and over again. And so, when I broke down, it was—it was bad. I cried so hard that my body was shaking. I was crying so hard no sound came out. I couldn’t breathe.

  Kai had an ice cream in his hand. In such a swift movement, he dropped it and came to my side. He hugged me with such a grip. I still couldn’t breathe.

  When she was home, rarely, she liked to inflict pain. I was in pain. I liked to pretend that it didn’t hurt. That the marks hadn’t remained on my skin. That I didn’t have to make excuses. It was hard to pretend that it didn’t affect me. I didn’t want it to.

  Kai held me, tightly. “Peaches, what’s wrong?”

  I sniffled. “I-I-I c-c-can’t. I can’t do it.”

  “Can’t do what, Peaches?”

  I didn’t know. All the time. I said I couldn’t. I didn’t know why. I just knew I couldn’t. I liked to pretend. And I liked to dream. It was so fun to dream. Always fun.

  I was just washing my hands and all these thoughts started rushing in with the water and I started crying. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.

  “Take off your clothes,” I whispered.

  Kai looked at me. “What?”

  “I said, take it off!” I screamed.

  “Peaches, what—”

  “Do what I said!”

  “Peaches, no! No! What the fuck?”

  “Why aren’t you listening to me when I talk to you?” I cried, tears leaking from my eyes.

  He hugged me again. “God, Peaches. I don’t—I don’t want you to—”

  I pulled away slowly. “You’re not doing what I asked of you.”

  “Peaches, stop …”

  I couldn’t stop. My eyes were burning and I didn’t know what I was saying.

  “TAKE IT OFF!” I screamed, as loud as I possibly could.

  “Peaches, fuck! I said no! I fucking said no! Listen to me when I fucking talk to you!” he screamed back.

  We stared at each other for a while.

  “I need a breather,” he said, and walked off.

  Coming in

  OLIVIA GOLDHILL

  This is part of a longer piece I’ve been working on over the past few weeks while meeting with Shari. It starts with Drew making the uncharacteristically bold (Ctrl + B) move of inviting herself into a neighbor’s apartment.

  She knocked on the door, then quickly stepped back. Too late. The woman with long curly hair, wearing a loose, cropped flowery top and black leggings, opened it quickly. She looked flustered and, seeing Drew, confused.

  “I made some cookies,” said Drew.

  The woman didn’t move. She seemed to look past Drew, her eyes losing all focus. “That’s very nice,” she said.

  “I made some cookies and I wanted to bring them to you,” said Drew. “Because we’re neighbors.” She paused. “Can I come in?”

  The woman swayed on the spot, a pendulum finding its center, and briefly shut her eyes and smiled at Drew. “Of course,” she said. “Where are my manners? Of course, come in.” She gestured her through the doorway into a light, airy room, bright from the yellow sofa and mismatch of framed photographs and blue, orange, and red fabrics. She adjusted an ornamental bowl and fluffed a cushion as she walked through the room, turning over her shoulder to introduce herself as Rebecca.

  “Drew,” said Drew. She looked around. “You have a nice apartment.”

  Rebecca was in the kitchen, the sleeves of her top falling down to reveal smooth, white arms as she reached into her cupboard for crystal wineglasses.

  “Wine?” she asked. “Or would you prefer tea?”

  “Tea would be nice,” said Drew. “Are you okay?”

  Rebecca smiled as she moved around the kitchen in graceful circles, filling up the kettle, turning it on, reaching for the blue china cups.

  “I’m a bit more frazzled than usual,” she said. “It’s been a tumultuous day around here.”

  Drew nodded. It was difficult to know what to say. “How’s your marriage?” she asked.

  “I might have a cigarette, actually, if you don’t mind.” Rebecca already had one in her hand, bringing it closer to her lips. “Or a spliff.” She inhaled. “Calming.” She took out her rolling papers and began to pick out the buds of weed on the kitchen counter.

  “Sorry,” said Drew. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “How do you like living here?” Rebecca asked.

  Drew thought about it. “I like the big windowsills, and the shower wat
er pressure,” she said. Rebecca looked up, waited. “Did I say something wrong?” asked Drew.

  “No, no,” Rebecca said. She smiled.

  “I just … I like it here as much as I would anywhere, I think,” said Drew. “I never really know how to answer that question.”

  LORENA DE LA ROSA

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: University Heights High School

  BORN: Bronx, NY

  LIVES: Bronx, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I remember the big smile plastered on my face, but it wasn’t enough to express what I was feeling inside. Walking through the Met museum felt like home, bursting with creativity and ideas. Reflecting on that day, I see that the strong bond we share cannot be painted on a canvas. Girls Write Now has helped me to express myself through different writing genres. If I’d never joined Girls Write Now, I wouldn’t have met such a fierce woman, who has taught me so much and shown me that all I have to do is to believe in myself.

  JUDITH ROLAND

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 6

  OCCUPATION: President, Roland Communications

  BORN: Oceanside, NY

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Kudos to Girls Write Now for matching me with my mentee and friend, Lorena, with whom I share so much. The first thing we noted was a serious, mutual passion for avocados. We connect effortlessly each week, sharing events in our lives and writing together on everything from sci-fi to romance to serial killers. Lorena is kind and thoughtful, rises to any challenge, and works continually to improve as a writer. She has also initiated me into the world of K-pop and is the best hugger I know!

  Top Secret Surgery

  LORENA DE LA ROSA

  My piece, “Top Secret Surgery,” is based on a dream I had. This dream opened a new path for me by showing me that I need to think boldly and that nothing is impossible.

  “Pass me the scalpel, Charles,” I said, my voice urgent and laced with fear, watching as blood gushed out like a fountain from the burst artery in the stomach of the green creature. Two more hands along with mine pushed down on his abdomen that was half open, putting pressure to stop the bleeding. “Pass me the cotton,” I said, my voice labored, as I heard the anesthesiologist scream out his vitals and the beep of his heart filled my mind with worry. Soon Charles came with synthetic cotton patches in his bloody hands and stood in between me and the nurse, who didn’t seem familiar, but that wasn’t as important right now. He stuffed his hand where mine was, through the unfamiliar-looking guts of the patient, locating the cotton on the artery and leaving it there for a moment. Finally the bleeding stopped. The anesthesiologist screamed, “His vitals are going back to normal,” and the sound of his heart coming from the monitor calmed me.

  “Thank God,” I said as I looked up at Charles. That was when I noticed the patient was an alien. I looked around the room, my mind dizzy, as aliens with lab coats congratulated me. Then my eyes stopped on the green creature on the bed. That was my dream, a dream about an alien operation with aliens as my co-workers.

  I sat up on my bed that morning, breathing heavily like a fish out of water as beads of sweat formed on my forehead, and the first thing I did was look around my room, as if the dream were somewhat real. I rubbed my eyes, calming down once hearing my abuela’s sweet voice mixed with the loud, annoying voices of my brothers, which rang all around the house.

  “What was that?” I whispered, not believing it wasn’t my normal dragon-saving-the-princess dream or the blank screen I sometimes saw. I sighed, staring at the golden track trophy on my dresser, and I soon got lost as I tried to break the dream down like jigsaw puzzles that I would have to complete to find an answer.

  The aliens, the blood, the aliens!

  The first piece I connected was that this was symbolic of the real world today, where in the future I’ll be working among robots in a hospital environment, collaborating and performing in operating rooms with them. No one knows if we will work alongside aliens one day, but the possibilities are endless due to the fast pace at which science is progressing today.

  The beep of his heart filled my mind with worry.

  The second piece I connected was the idea that I always wanted to become a neurosurgeon to save people. I think that dream opened up a new informational section in my already complex brain, sending electrical currents through my neurons, telling me that nothing is impossible.

  The sound of his heart coming from the monitor calmed me.

  This dream had a great impact on me, because performing a surgery on an alien is beyond our imagination. But some things deemed impossible today, like in my dream, could be a key to a pathway I am yet to unlock in the future.

  Ode to an Avocado

  JUDITH ROLAND

  I wrote this poem at the Girls Write Now Poetry workshop, The Economy of Words, and it represents my first, bold attempt at an ode. It was inspired by the love my mentee, Lorena, and I share for avocados.

  My love for avocados knows no bounds

  Whether in a fancy guac or, I have found,

  As simple as smashed on morning toast

  Yes, I think I like it that way the most

  Not just ingested but for my outside, too,

  For facials or even as shampoo,

  Its unctuous feel adds moisture to my skin,

  I’d bathe in it if cost didn’t make that a sin

  I dream of growing an avocado tree in my yard,

  Although in NYC that could prove pretty hard

  MANAR DIHYEM

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: MESA Charter High School

  BORN: Yonkers, NY

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: My experience here at Girls Write Now has been an emotional roller coaster. At times, I feel overwhelmed with everything life has to offer, but then I look back at my writing and I think to myself, Wow, you’re nice. I feel humbled and eternally grateful to be a part of this uplifting and empowering organization. I wouldn’t be who I am in the writing world if not for this program.

  JAIME FULLER

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 2

  OCCUPATION: Editor and Writer

  BORN: Glens Falls, NY

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: When we first met at the Girls Write Now office, we were both carrying an iced coffee. We then found out we both loved the Mets, and Manar concluded that we would get along very well. We have had many iced coffees since then, and it has definitely made writing great things much easier.

  An Open Letter to Ignorance

  MANAR DIHYEM

  I was frustrated with the world—as I am now. I felt as if I had to emit my emotions—all of them. People need to understand that it’s not okay to be close-minded. It’s not okay to assume that anyone already knows everything there is to know about the world.

  Dear ignorance,

  I’m sorry to be harsh … but why do you exist? Honestly, I think people can benefit from your existence. We learn a lot from you. Like how to avoid you, to stop you from spreading. You should watch TED Talks. We learn from you, now it’s time for you to learn from us.

  Sir, ma’am—whatever you are. Stop possessing people with your demonic self. First off, you aren’t a demon … personification? Maybe.

  Once again, sorry, but I’m going to need you to maybe die, maybe. Wait, harsh. Sorry. Wait, no. Why do I apologize? Oh, wait, it’s because I’m wise, unlike some character traits that I’ve chosen to personify for my open letter. Habibi, look, you’re the reason people are dying. People are dying of ignorance. People like: refugees from El Salvador or Syria. Victims of police brutality, anti-everything, and racism. The leader of “our” country is an infectious carrier of absurd ideologies. Lord please, guide ignorance in what it is—an imbecile. Call me whatever you want, define “imbecile” however you desire. But I meant for you to get offended. Because guess what, the truth is you affront people 26/9, maybe
unwittingly, and maybe sometimes you’re aware, but I for one give up. It’s ludicrous that you made the government careless about the AIDS epidemic that took place in the 1980s. It’s bonkers that some whites think they can be supremacists or simply superior.

  No need to harm others for your own satisfaction. Which honestly makes you seem insane, because, well—you are. I’m sick of supremacy. And “privileges” and “laws.” And you.

  And I’m sick of the government not even pretending to care about public service. It’s hypocrisy! Shut up. I know what you’re thinking—this young lady is ever so dumb. Yeah, now I know where I got it from. :D

  Salam,

  Your favorite “idiot”

  An Open Letter to Writing Open Letters

  JAIME FULLER

  Here is a short afterword to Manar’s piece, showing the backstory of how it got made (and a little glimpse at our first year together as mentor and mentee). It is not an open letter, but… when a good title presents itself …

  I’ve watched Manar write in lots of genres over the course of this year of Girls Write Now—a suspense story that we read afterward and were shocked over how scary a scenario we were capable of conjuring (it involved a haunted house and a dark family secret that was uncovered during—what else?—a trip to Grandma’s house) and an ode to coffee that ended up being an ode to the place where we met every week—an empty Dunkin’ that thoughtfully played terrible pop for us to get distracted by as we sipped iced coffee and wrote.

  The genre that Manar liked so much that she chose examples of it for both her Girls Write Now CHAPTERS Reading piece and her submission for this anthology—and the genre that definitely showcases her humor and her thoughtfulness about the world and religion and politics and the past and the future, as well as her frustration that the world is filled with people who don’t think as critically about these subjects as she does—is the open letter. We spent weeks returning to her very open, open letter to ignorance after it first spilled out of her in a quick flood of feelings, but we didn’t change much—she had already thought enough about ignorance lately that she could unspool her thoughts on it concisely in the first try. After we read it out loud the first time, we both looked at each other and said, “Yup, this is pretty good!” We still had many more pieces to write the rest of the semester, but hopefully you agree.