the artists -...

The ArtistsKelsey Barolak ’13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7, 10

Helen Cammerzell ’13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Ysabel Coss ’14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

Tapasya Das ’13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . front & back cover, 2, 3, 29

Leighton Durham ’13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Paul Egan ’13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Hugo Hentoff ’15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Morgan Hallow ’14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

YeoJin Kwon ’13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Celeste Lancaster ’13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31

Joanie Oates ’13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

Emily Troisi ’13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Sydney Young ’13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17, 26

The Andrean 2012-2013

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Table of ContentsGrand Harbour Jessie Duncan ’13 2

IKEA: Bedding Available in All Sizes Nadiri Saunders ’13 4

Night on Noxontown Mollie Gillespie ’14 7

Hurricane Zack Meadows ’13 8

Ellery Craft Jessie Duncan ’13 9

Moments Sally Madigan ’15 31

Emily Troisi ’13

St. Andrew’s School

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Grand Harbour Jessie Duncan ’13

Half of the time tide water lapsand slaps the sides of fishing boats,and half the time it leaves, and traps the tiny fleet it hosts .

Piles scarred with salt and rotleash docks that punctuate the bay,now strewn with things the men forgot, and things they threw away .

The waves go slinking out to sealike curtains quickly pulled aside;they leave the blackened mudflats free to bake and stink and dry .

Morgan Hallow ”14


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Tapasya Das ’13

The mud adheres to each of us;lightless, silty, it congealsa swamp of low and dirty lust coating our hands and heels

as, tentative, we scramble farout to the shoreline, out and downto where the rocks and boulders are, the seafloor’s rugged crowns .

And, reaching them, we catch our breathsthen clamber up their jagged sidesto perch in the damp mossy clefts and glimpse the far-off tides .


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IKEA: Bedding Available in All SizesNadiri Saunders ’13

The day that he met her it was his third time working the early morning shift in the bedding department of IKEA . He’d just been promoted from operating a forklift in the storage room . That morning, once he’d slipped his new, bright yellow polo over his head, tucked in his shirt, and buckled his belt, Oliver knew . It was not just time for Oli-ver to teach mothers how to coordinate sheets with their duvet covers . No, not that at all . It was time for Oliver to be seen .

She must have appeared when he was restocking the shelves with bed skirts . He’d made certain there was half an inch between each of the plastic packages . Perfect . They faced forward so that the newly imported florescent bulb’s reflected off the top right corner of every package . Beautiful . After he’d arranged the packages, he spotted dust collecting on the edge of the black shelf . He used his index finger to wipe it off but—thank goodness!—he caught himself before he could wipe his finger on his navy trousers . Oliver started toward the bath-room to wash his hands and there she was . Literally there, face to face with him, wearing a purple sundress .

“Hi! Um, could you help me with something?” she asked . This was the first time he’d been addressed by a customer, and the only time for several months thereafter .

He tried to remember the responses he’d learned in training, but he couldn’t find the right words . He had replayed this moment in his mind, envisioning the ease with which he would demonstrate a deep understanding of thread counts . But he’d never imagined a girl so young . And definitely not a girl wearing purple . So he just stood there, being sure not to allow his dusty index finger to make contact with his trousers—or any other part of his uniform . The girl in purple spoke again .

“Because, I saw this add in a catalog and I was wondering if you had bedding in my size .” She handed him the torn sheet which read:

IKEA: BEDDING: AVAILABLE IN ALL SIZES

He coughed into his elbow . “Well, we have all sizes . Although, depending on the style you want it may or may not be available in the store . But, we can always order it for you .” He forced his biggest and most sincere smile, unknowing that the expression made him look more constipated than approachable .


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She shook her head . “I know you have all sizes . But I want to know if you have my size .” The purple girl grabbed his wrist—the one with the dusty index finger—and led him to the row of beds displaying flo-ral duvet covers, which is interestingly most popular both among girls between the ages of twelve and sixteen and women seventy-five and up . The miniature bed she’d led him to had purple and orange roses, a best seller that season .

“Is this the bedding you want?” he asked“Yeah, I guess .”“What size bed do you

have?”“A twin .”“So, you want this floral

duvet in the twin size?”She crossed her arms and

exhaled . ”I thought that at first, but now I feel like it just isn’t me .”

Oliver knew for a fact that they did not teach him how to deal with a customer like this . He stood up straight, smiled, he even made eye contact, but nothing satisfied her .

“Hey,” she said, “want to go to the kitchen models?” Oliver most definitely knew that he should not have gone to the kitchen models . He could’ve placed his new position in jeop-ardy if he abandoned his station . But he still followed the girl in the purple dress . She effortlessly led him through the maze of hallways, steps, and furniture, which he had learned by studying a map each night for a week before his job interview . She stopped inside one of the more rustic-looking models . Everything within the 6’ by 8’ area was painted a vomit-like green with accents of brown . The cabinets, drawers, and small circular table in the center were all painted that same green color . The purple girl took a seat at the table, and motioned for Oliver to join her .

Once he’d sat, she said, “My dad used to bring my sister and me here to play house . We pretended we lived in a mansion where people visited to buy our furniture .” She paused and stared at an empty space on the table . “Will you pass the mashed potatoes, please?” Oliver

Hugo Hentoff ’15


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looked down at the empty surface, then back to the purple girl . She nodded . Oliver proceeded to cup his hands as if he were holding a bowl of mashed potatoes . He offered the “mashed potatoes” to the girl, who cupped her hands around his and collected the invisible bowl . “Thank you .” She then pretended to use a very large invisible spoon to plop invisible mashed potatoes onto an invisible plate . Once finished, she looked up at him . “So, what are you doing here?”

“I work here . I was just promoted,” he added with pride .“Yeah, but why? Why are you working here? You don’t seem to like

it all that much .”“I…I don’t know .”Purple stood from her vomit green chair, walked around the tiny

table toward Oliver . She placed her hand on his shoulder, and said, “Good luck with, you know, all of this,” and disappeared just as quickly as she’d arrived .

Oliver left the table with invisible mashed potatoes, and followed the maze back to his station in the bedding section . By now, he’d for-gotten about his dusty index finger, but the girl would be rooted in his mind . Purple .

Paul Egan ’13


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Night on NoxontownMollie Gillespie ’14

We stole away, cloaked by night,out of mind and out of sight,my co-conspirators and I .As the final bells tolledwe were slowly cajoledby the pulsing adrenaline high .

Tentative, we toed the ledge,our hearts fluttering, on edge .We froze a moment, statuesque,then shed our second skin,leaving just firmamentas witness to the mock burlesque .

In a flash we took the plunge,bodies slick with silt and grunge;and, though I’m scared of sounding lewd,we, neck deep there in it,affirmed the old tenetthat the pond does feel better nude .

Kelsey Barolak ’13


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Hurricane Zack Meadows ’13

A machinegun wind ripping the roof,casting dark shingles across the soaked yard .A candle quivering in the kitchen, casting light on cheap linoleum .Upturned roots and huddling sweatshirts . A pack of cards unopened on a table .A cup of coffee gone cold at the wind’s sigh .

Helen Cammerzell ’13


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Ellery Craft Jessie Duncan ’13

It’s 0300 hours when I get called—we’re raiding an arms stockpile somewhere in the Republic of Omaha . Immersion – 0330 reads the silvery text as it hums its way across the wall of my flat . I push my covers off and slam my feet onto the icy linoleum floor, jerking myself into consciousness .

“What is it?” Tessa moans from across the room . I can see that she’s kicked off her sheets again . That isn’t good . It isn’t good for her to get chilled .

“I’m on call,” I say, pulling on a shirt, my short boots . “In, uh, Ne-braska? Old Kansas? Somewhere mid-country . I have to go .”

“Hmm .” I’m wide-awake now, running my fingers over the cupboard . It

beeps and produces a little silver pouch of some nutritive liquid, which I pocket and head for the door .

“Ellie?” Tess asks . “Yeah?” I walk back over to her bed, careful not to trip . The only

light comes from the notification, now hanging still on the far wall, and from the hundred tiny LED clusters and medical readouts that surround Tessa’s bed . It’s barely six steps across the carpetless flat . Her dull gray tunic has ridden up above her bony hips, revealing im-maculate white leggings underneath . I remember her when we were in high school– my older sister, always the pretty one . Curves in all the right places, most of which have now melted down from fever and hunger, until she is this husk of herself that I see in front of me . Im-pulsively, I reach down and pull the silky sheets back over her .

“I’m hot .” She gets like this at night, feverish and childish . “Keep your covers on, Tess .” There’s a beep from somewhere be-

hind me . “I’ve got to go .” I pass unnoticed through the grey, floor-lit hallways . Most people

who live in our neighborhood are custodians, support staff; necessary for the upkeep of the base, which is almost entirely self-contained in a big cement block outside Old Vancouver . It isn’t until I pass the turn-offs for Ardsley and Wheton that I start to see other soldiers, rubbing their eyes as they trudge on down from their suites and penthouses .

“Morning, Craft,” calls a loud voice from my right .I don’t recognize the voice, but I do have a name-tagged armband .

“Morning,” I respond . “Sleep well?” he jogs a bit to catch up, and I reluctantly make eye

contact . He’s taller than me . Dark hair, blue eyes, dimples, with the same vitamin D-deficient pallor as me . Soldiers like us don’t leave base


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Kelsey Barolak ’13

except for Christmas and retirement . He has a wide grin, and his arm-band reads Whittaker .

“Well enough,” I say, stopping in front of the elevator down to the immersion levels . We both step in, glancing up at the retinal scanner to be authorized . He’s well built, like a soldier from the last century, someone who’s trained, professional . I glance over at him again in the moment of silence after the doors slide shut .

“So, I was thinking of taking out one of the old mechanicals . See if I’ve still got it, you know?” he says, leaning against the back wall, crossing his mus-cular arms cockily in front of his chest .

I’m also thinking of taking out an older, lower quality mechanical immersion rig, mostly because I could work ten times as many runs as I do now and still not be able to afford the rent on a new one on top of Tessa’s medical bills . So this Whittaker is the normal kind of conceited, useless, child of a soldier that forms the bulk of the base’s population .

“Good luck,” I respond evenly, suppressing a sigh as the door slides open .

“One hell of a positive attitude you’ve got there,” he says at my back . “Smile, will you?”

My frown sinks into a grimace, as I step out onto the central atri-um . Hundreds of soldiers mill around on twelve floors of rigs, stacked up the walls like so many P .O . boxes . Some are sweaty, exhausted, coming off of night missions with their plain cotton clothes clinging to their shivering bodies . Most, though, are pouring out of the elevators and the far stairwell, yawning, ready to begin the day . The gleaming steel scaffolds catch the fluorescent overhead lighting, reflecting it, as usual, right into my eyes .

“See you inside, Craft!” Whittaker calls, undeterred . He jogs off to the right and up the stairs to the first level of rigs, and I make a sharp


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corresponding left .As usual, I select the most derelict rig I can find and step into the

tiny room, letting it scan my eye as I do .Welcome, Craft, Ellery, gleams the low-resolution screen in the cor-

ner . Now calibrating rig .The immersion rig—the jumbled mass of mechanical arms and yel-

lowed padding that takes up most of the room—begins to right itself, clunking ominously .

When it finally beeps its completion, I step backwards into the nest of gears and wires and let them nestle automatically around my limbs . The heart-rate monitors and other electrodes come first, then the flex-ible rods that run along my arms and legs to sense fine movement . Finally, the omnidirectional treadmill folds up to meet my feet and I kick off my short boots, allowing my bare feet to get a good purchase on the textured rubber surface . Before the helmet comes down over my eyes I reach up and snag a sanitary liner from the dispenser above my head . The helmet smells like cheap liquor and someone else’s sweat, and the controls I slide my hands into are slightly sticky . As usual, I bite back my gag reflex as the helmet’s display switches on .

Welcome, private Craft, says the helmet pleasantly . You’re on call in around 8 minutes. Would you like to hear some music while you wait?

“Sure,” I say, as usual . There is a small pause . I’m sorry, the helmet continues . You haven’t

purchased the mp3 attachment. Would you like to purchase it now?As usual, I sigh and shake my head .

8 minutes later, the display goes temporarily white and then begins to load my live surroundings . Thousands of miles away, my mechani-cal surrogate’s cameras switch on and its posture adjusts to match mine . Through its eyes—its cameras, my eyes—I see a few dozen identical machines doing the same as their various owners jack in, sleek bodies artificially sinewed with some kind of smart-platinum/silicon hybrid, silvery camera-eyes mounted around their angular aerodynamic skulls . Some are stretching, testing their range of mo-tion, their ammunition stores—we all have greyish multipurpose guns soldered to our left arms . I flip my third and fourth cameras around behind me, and push their visual feeds to the far edges of the display so they’ll function like rear-view mirrors . The machines have only one blind spot: directly behind, from the ground to about five feet up, only ten inches wide . They teach us to check it in basic training, but no one really does . I step forward on the rubber treadmill—on the metal floor of the storage hangar—and head for the door .

The earbud chirps away as I do, narrating the history of the area I’ve just arrived in, the conflict, how much time we’ll have . Typical


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story; after the east coast was destroyed, the entire Midwest was cut off from any kind of international aid . As the Eurasian continent de-scended into a nuclear holocaust, Nebraska and that whole area went a bit anarchist: lots of warring factions, rejection of US authority, et cetera . Now, 50 years after the first hit, the NUSA is trying to reclaim the North American territories that got little enough fallout to still be livable .

As a soldier of the New United States of the Americas, it pipes as I turn the corner into one of the main corridors, you are bringing civilization and Just Government to areas of inhumane and oppressive chaos. You are a force—

There is a loud buzzing siren, cutting off the droning voice . Door opening, the hangar shrills . This is an orange zone, mentions

the helmet . I reach the threshold, the closed corrugated metal exit . Or-ange means shoot anyone outside on sight, exercise judgment inside buildings . Our job is to find the arms stockpile, of course, but it’s also just to reduce the quantity of enemy soldiers present in the territory . Outside the hangar, I can hear gunfire through the sensitive micro-phones imbedded in my surrogate’s neck: the immersion rig pipes them into my helmet, computed to be just loud enough to be informa-tive .

Private Craft, you are now cleared to engage, recites the helmet a few moments later, and the door slides open, and I throw myself forward into the sickly pink Nebraska dawn .

This whole system was designed in order to give soldiers some objective distance . For example, I have no fear of dying as I sprint from the hangar, ducking as quickly as possible behind a burned out Toyota pickup amid a downright rain of enemy fire . If my machine is destroyed I return to reality safe and sound except for the financial burden of paying for the damaged equipment . This way, they reason, there is just the right amount of incentive to avoid recklessness—not enough to inspire true terror .

Abandoning the truck, I dash forward, legs stronger than my own, leaping over rubble, clutching my gun close to my chest . We’re in a parking lot, I realize for the first time . Burned out cars are scattered every ten yards or so, sheltering clumps of the enemy, who seem to have staked out the area, waiting for us to emerge . The lot is book-ended by two office buildings, one alleyway, and one wide street . The storefronts, long looted bare, glare at me from their pitiful row across the road .

Collectively, we are unfazed by the attempted ambush . We out-gun them . I see another machine kick an enemy man over with one slender metal leg, simultaneously shooting a burst of fire over his left shoulder . There is not much danger here, objectively .


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My kill count appears at the top of my display (Kills: 1) . Private Craft, addresses the helmet, Command requests you move forward. We have people to handle the rest of this mess .

I nod and trot steadily forward into the street, and suddenly I enter an entirely new situation .

The pathetic stakeout of the parking lot seems to have been mounted by the least heavily gunned people in the region . From all directions, from the buildings and the storefronts and the street itself, I am suddenly surrounded by whirring, splintering enemy fire . My instincts kick in and I sprint, zig-zagging, bending to change elevation, crouching behind any barrier I can find for seconds of respite, pushing forward . My heart starts to race—adrenaline, fear . Eventually, dread . I am not an effective soldier .

I am not an effective soldier, because I am not objective . If I total this machine, Tess’ medical care will be suspended until I pay the outstanding debt . There’s no emergency aid; I have no savings . She’s basically on life-support as it is; she’d be gone in a week at most . It isn’t my own life I’m dodging these bullets for, it’s hers .

Ammo costs money that I can’t afford to waste . Every shot counts, which I try not to think about as I take them, trying to reduce the vol-ume of bullets heading in my direction . The count goes up (Kills: 5), but my left wrist is damaged—the rig simulates the machine’s injury by going rigid around my left hand, now useless .

I turn a corner and race down a narrow alley, somewhat sheltered from the onslaught . Coming onto the next parallel street, I realize I’ve hit a jackpot: a whole outfit of them, sandbagged in, reloading their arms . An easy spray of miniature grenades takes care of all of them, the display registering the kills (Kills: 13), the helmet filtering their screams from my hearing . Right now, empathy is apparently not a useful emotion .

For a while it goes on like this: running scared for minutes at a time before finding a good angle, steadily making progress forward, making kills, making money, making time . I can zone out a bit after a while, let my reflexes take over . My real goal is yet to come: the last guard .

Killing the last guard before the NUSA gains control of the stock-pile will give me a huge monetary bonus: financial security at least through next Tuesday . I might even have enough to defer a mission or two, take a day off . Maybe buy something nice for us, some miniature luxury, all without risking Tess .

It’s this goal that consumes me as I race forward through the bright-ening day, firing carefully into upper-story windows, dodging bullet sprays and potholes .

Approximate distance of goal, mentions the helmet finally, one mile.


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I redouble my effort, though I am starting to get tired . Not as tired as I would have been after running for more than an hour in my own body, of course—the rig alleviates most of the physical strain—but still . I’m fading . I’m not operating at my best anymore .

0 .72 miles, reads the display . I pause behind a corner for a moment to avoid a shooter staked out in a gutted coffee shop a few dozen yards ahead, and suddenly I’m no longer alone . Another machine streaks past, running at an absolutely breakneck pace . It shoots a spray of grenades into the shop as it passes, not even fazed by the shooter’s presence .

Shit . As fast as I can I’m up and sprinting after it, adopting its reckless

pattern of bombardment as I fly . Else, it’ll beat me to the stockpile, the bonus . The security . My kill count continues to increase, more errati-cally now . I’m leaving some alive behind me as I go—a horrible long-range strategy, but fine for the 0 .59 miles I have left . Three blocks later I catch up to the second machine when it pauses behind an overturned city bus—to catch its breath? I can tell from the slight jerk to its movements that it isn’t a neuro-rig, isn’t controlled directly by its owner’s brain . There’s a millisecond of lag to a mechanical rig, and a small range of motion that’s impossible, differences that I’ve learned to notice . Perhaps it’s another poor kid like me .

“Craft!” it exclaims directly into my helmet, having apparently en-abled its intercom .

I grimace at the loud noise and look for the little LED nametag on its silvery bicep: Whittaker .

Shit . “Hi,” I mutter, and as soon as I can I throw myself forward again,

sprinting . So I guess he did take out a mechanical . To see if he’s still ‘got it .’ I seethe .

0 .42 miles . I shoot absently to my left as I run, noticing Whittaker in my peripherals, gaining on me (Kills: 53) . I want more than any-thing else to shoot him in the mechanical gut, but I know that’d be considered my debt, not his, and would kill Tess just as soon as dying myself would .

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Craft!” he exclaims exuberantly, picking up speed, bounding past me . I remember the elevator ride this morn-ing, his build . He obviously worked out, but I assumed it was weight lifting, sculpting, cosmetic stuff . Clearly, though, he does a massive amount of cardio . You don’t get legs and lungs that can run this well on mechanical by using a neuro-rig, though he certainly talked like that was his usual protocol .

In any case, it’s imperative I get there first . For Tessa . “This isn’t a game, Whittaker,” I gasp, hurtling along just behind


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him . “Whaddaya mean?” he asks, not sounding even a little bit winded . I

flick off my own intercom, welcoming the silence . The concentration of enemies is steadily rising as we approach the

stockpile—0 .21 miles . Finally, we’re forced to slow down, to move like we would were we fighting in our own bodies, cautiously crouching behind things, shooting blindly over barriers . I lose track of him at around 0 .17 miles, cutting my own course to the right, taking down clump after clump of shooters, crunching their antique guns under my feet as I pass over them (Kills: 76) .

And here I am, 0 .06 miles from the stockpile, at the door of its building . I knee down the door, flicking my flashlight on to illuminate its dim insides .

I can see the masses of crates, the barrels of who knows what ex-plosive substance . I jog forward triumphantly, reaching the first stacks and running my hand lovingly over the splintery wood . I’m here .

Assignment complete, intones my helmet . I assume one of the men or women I’d shot outside was the last, as there doesn’t seem to be anyone around here . I won’t know for sure until I get my receipt for the day, but I can already imagine Tess’ surprise when I show up with enough money to buy us something nice—an mp3 or two, maybe . We can dance around the flat just like we used to dance around the kitchen as kids, before I enlisted, before dad joined the space program, before Tessa got this sick .

“Requesting next orders?” I ask the helmet, but before it can re-spond there’s a loud crash, and then one shot . I whirl around to see Whittaker, standing silhouetted in a machine-sized hole in the derelict wall he’s just burst through, gun cocked .

And I see a woman—a kid, really, barely eighteen by the look of her—sprawled across the ground ahead of him, clutching an old shotgun, blood seeping through her grey sweatshirt from the shot that killed her .

The final guard . Exit your machine, the helmet instructs out of the vast silence I

suddenly feel opening up in front of me, support crews will deal with your equipment . I can see them spilling into the room to carry off our mechanical bodies, cheap first generation machines piloted by un-skilled support staff .

“Exit,” I say, and my display goes dark . For a few minutes I just stare at the dull screen, breathing in the rank helmet-smell, disbeliev-ing . Finally, I lift the helmet off and set it down, slowly working my way out of the web of machinery to step down off the treadmill, to put on my boots with trembling hands and to reach up and grasp the plastic receipt out of the slot from which it protrudes (Kills: 76 . Fees: 1


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minor limb damage, 1 general maintenance) . You have a personal message, notes the wall . “Read it,” I order through clenched teeth . Message reads, “Good game, Craft,” the wall says helpfully . The worst

is, I can imagine his smug grin as he types it .It is all I can do to maintain my composure as I leave the rig and

stalk deliberately back to the elevator, back up the hallways, back home .

For the first time in history, the best soldiers are mostly scrawny nerds, completely incapable of killing anyone in real life . Heads bound round with the neuro-rigs’ electrode tape, they recline in plush couches as their machine bodies rush around a thousand miles away, doing the dirty work .

I am not one of them, I remind myself as I lie on the chill floor of our flat, cranking out as many sit-ups as I can despite my aching limbs . I can’t afford to be .

“It’s fine, Ellie . Really . You tried,” Tess comforts from her bed . Its 1020 hours, and I know I’ll probably have an afternoon mission, maybe an evening one after that . I should be resting, but I can’t bring myself to .

“It’s… not… fine…” I say, spitting each word out at the top of each sit-up . Tess doesn’t get it, the gravity of her situation . I wish I could make her realize that just because I’ve taken care of her this far, just because I haven’t failed yet doesn’t mean we aren’t still three inches from a dangerous drop . I would try, but it would scare her .

“What did you say his last name was?” Tessa asks . “Whittaker,” I manage breathlessly, counting my hundredth sit-up

and flipping around to do push-ups next . “Whittaker? No way! I knew a Whittaker in high school!” she says .

“Let me check my yearbook…” Tessa’s yearbook is one of her few possessions, having been free

upon graduation from the public school we both attended . I hadn’t touched mine in years, but then again my memories weren’t half as shining as hers were: Tess was musical, smart, popular, gifted . I was fast for a while, until Kolli Jackson beat my mile time in the 10th grade . Other than that, though, I was always average .

“There!” she says . “Is that him?” I pause my exercises and glance up at the wall screen, which now

displays a seventeen year-old kid, unmistakably a younger Whittaker, grinning idiotically and waving at the smart-camera .

“Small world,” Tess breathes, staring . “I’m taking a shower,” I say quickly, and hurry over to the tiny

bathroom stall, unable in this moment to deal with her nostalgia .


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Sydney Young ’13


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Tessa was effortless back then, charming . She was infectiously in love with the world, with everything no matter how shitty and ash-coated and broken it became, and she was always loved in return . Nothing ever seemed to go wrong for her—I mean, it did, but it wasn’t wrong to her, not ever . She didn’t seem capable of pain .

Now she is, of course . I see copious yet controlled volumes of mor-phine showing up in her bills . But still, lying around all day dying she exudes helpless confidence . It’s all all right to her . There’s no danger in her world .

The danger belongs to me . I’ve finally found what I’m good at: sup-pressing danger . Surviving . Caretaking . I let the water roll over me, soft and warmly bubbled . I envy her, of course . I always have .

In the following days, I see Whittaker everywhere . In Central Ser-vices, where I cash my receipts and allot money to Tessa’s medical ac-counts; in the main Rec Hall where I go every other day or so to pick up my ramen noodles from the grocery-wall . Especially, endlessly, in the practice courts .

He’s tall with broad shoulders and a narcissistic amount of muscle mass considering how little he actually has to use it . He runs on the treadmills, most of which are actually dusty—people like me who need cardio in their jobs get more than enough of it on missions, peo-ple who don’t wouldn’t ever bother . Except for Whittaker, apparently .

In the rec room, over by the bank of cheap civilian immersion rigs, he chats up other people’s dependents—the wives and sons and daughters of soldiers, living off the accomplishments of others . They laugh loudly, their gaudy dyed hair swept up to impractical heights, their clothing tight and metallic, smoky eyes and bright smiles flicker-ing in the light of the videogames and pornographic simulators .

Whittaker isn’t the only one—there are a dozen or so like him that take dependents up to their suites in twos and threes—I pass them all coming back down in the hallways, mostly girls, make-up mussed, animated tattoos still snaking their way artfully along their backs and shoulders . They look smug and hopeful and, I think vehemently at their receding backs, useless . I try to guess which ones are his, but I have no real idea .

“Hi, Craft!” Whittaker calls from across Central Services one day as he enters his receipts into an ATM . I ignore him, looking anywhere else . The big screens along the far walls are showing a debate—pro-war versus anti-war . They have to have these now, since the pacifists got all riled up over the rising kill counts a few years back .

We outnumber and outgun these people a hundred times over. This is not a war, it’s an execution, claims the waifish, frizzy-haired activist from her podium .


19

“Craft!” Whittaker calls again . Oh, Mary, the tall pro-war speaker begins, moving to place a friend-

ly hand on her shoulder . His coat is gleaming with medals, three neat rows of them . You’re right. We do outgun them—we have many more re-sources; we’re the more advanced society. In the chaos of the old Midwest, these people live short, violent lives—lives scarred by rape and murder and the prevalence of crude methamphetamines.

“I said, ‘Hi”, Craft,” Whittaker says, sounding irritated, closer now . I finish my transaction and start to leave, heading for the stairwell back up to the neighborhood floors .

Our soldiers are stronger than theirs, because they have been raised in a stronger society. If we are executioners, we are the executioners of pain, violence and anarchy.

I push through the stairwell doors, muffling the sound of the loud, recorded applause now erupting from the monitors overhead .

“Will you turn around, Craft?” Whittaker calls angrily . “I’m trying to talk to you .”

I’m already halfway up the first flight, but I stop . “I heard you,” I say .

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head . “You are one hell of a sore loser .” Something snaps . I turn around to face him . Yes, I’m the loser here .

He shot that last kid, he got the bonus . He gets to buy something nice for his penthouse, and meanwhile, I’m living receipt-to-receipt in a janitor’s flat, terrified that if I mess up one mission, I won’t be able to pay my sister’s cancer bills . “This isn’t a goddamn game for everyone,” I say acidly . “So do me a favor, and fuck off .”

He just stares at me for a few moments, then leans lazily against the wall . “I’ve been meaning to ask you . Are you related to Tessa Craft? Because you have the same hair, and I went to high school with her—”

“Goodbye, Whittaker,” I say finally and continue up the stairs, still seething as my wristband starts to buzz: I have another mission . I leave without answering .

After three hours of trudging through a land-mined cornfield in search of a few enemy holdouts, I’m in an even worse mood than before . I cash the day’s receipt before heading back home, thankful not to run into Whittaker at the ATMs . My legs positively burn as I climb up the stairs, reminding myself on every painful step that it’s good for me, no matter how sore I am . I round the corner into our corridor and stop dead .

Whittaker is coming out of our apartment . “What the hell,” I manage to shout, limping awkwardly towards

him, “are you doing here?”


20

“You are! You’re Tessa Craft’s little sister . I looked you up in the personnel directory . I knew her in high school!” he says, as cheerfully as always . I stare at him blankly, disbelieving his nerve—to show up at my flat?

“It was nice seeing you, Craft,” he says, infuriatingly, and strides off down the hall . I want to run after him, to hit him, but I don’t think I can physically manage it . Instead, I shoulder my way into the flat to see Tessa sitting up in bed, grinning like an idiot .

“Ellie!” she says breathlessly . “You didn’t say he was dreamy!”

That night, I lie awake on my cot, staring at the dull metal ceil-ing . Despite two hours spent trying to convince Tess of Whittaker’s low moral character, she maintains that I don’t know what I’m talking about .

“You can’t see him!” I ordered, pacing the room . “Well, why not?” she asked, crossing her arms like a five-year-old .“You can’t have a… a boyfriend in your state . It’s too stressful . It’ll

take the edge off your therapy .”“For God’s sake, Ellie . I talked to him once . What if he just wants to

be friends? Are you saying I can’t have friends?”“Oh, trust me,” I said, rolling my eyes . “That man does not want to

just be friends .”“Really?” she asked, eyes lighting up . “Are you certain?”“Tessa!”“Why not?” she pouted . “Because he’s not a nice man . And it’s my job to take care of you,

Tess . Tess, please?”“That is not your job, Ellery,” she said, glaring, and I didn’t have the

energy to argue anymore . My morning mission is at 0900 . Tess is pretending to be asleep

when I leave—I can tell by her shallow breathing . She refused to eat her dinner last night, which she knows drives me insane because I pay for it all to be specially formulated to give her the exact right amount of nutrients .

Whittaker is in the mission this time, but he steers clear of me dur-ing the actual firefight (Kills: 31) .

“Would you and Tess like to come over for dinner sometime?” my intercom buzzes as I crouch behind a low wall, reloading .

“She’s on life support, you jackass,” I mumble, hoisting the gun and preparing to make a dash to the next wall over . “She can’t leave the room .”

This time he follows me back home, and both Tessa and he beg me to let him in .

“I’m changing,” I say, “and then I need to get some sleep .”


21

Tessa glares, but Whittaker eventually goes away .

At 1800 hours that night I’ve limped down to the practice rooms to ice my calves and practice shooting—practice cartridges are free to sol-diers, as is ice . Whittaker shows up about an hour in, once I’ve gotten into a good rhythm .

“Ellery!” he booms, and I miss two shots . He takes the booth next to me, glaring down the alley at the glowing white targets . His gun is nicer, an upgrade .

“When were you in my flat?” I ask immediately .“What?”“When did Tess tell you my first name?”He laughs . “An hour or so ago . You don’t miss a beat, do you?” I glare . “Which is more than can be said for that target—”“What do you want?” I interrupt, and shoot three more times right

into the center of the faceless man’s chest . Thud . Thud . Thud .“Nice,” he breathes, synching his own gun to the booth’s control

panel . He doesn’t say anything else for several minutes . Then, “She’s really something, isn’t she?” Thud . Thud .

I stop shooting and turn to face him . “She’s dying .”“Yeah . I mean, physically . But I think…I think she’s more alive

than any of us, really . I mean, what are we doing, just trudging through life? Just… just faking it .”

“I’m taking care of my sister,” I say, and squeeze the trigger . Thud . “She was always such a presence . Back in school, I mean . She

wouldn’t give me the time of day then, of course . But she was so pretty . And so… so beautiful . Those are different things, you know—”

“Why are you telling me this?” Thud . “She needs someone . To take care of her .”I inhale sharply . “I am,” I nearly spit . “I didn’t mean… not like that— ,“ he starts .“Goodbye, Whittaker,” I say, ejecting my cheap gun from the sys-

tem and limping towards the elevators . I can’t manage the stairs now, though I should .

From then on, he’s a permanent fixture . I eventually stop coming up with excuses for why he can’t visit her, seeing how happy it makes her and how endlessly he shows up at the door . He brings presents, little baubles, and jewelry for her . He tries to bring food for me, but I refuse it, slurping my cheap ramen in bed as Tess goes on about how kind he is . I end every night by lecturing her not to get too attached to him, but I can see it’s already too late .

I begin to follow him around, whenever I’m not asleep or on call or


22

in practice or in the flat with them . If I can’t keep him away from Tess, I can at least make sure he isn’t hanging around with all those girls again . I never catch him, but I remain suspicious .

Tessa’s health isn’t improving, but I have noticed that it’s been de-creasing at a slower rate than before . I can’t quite bring myself to hope for the beginning of a recovery, especially since it seems to stem so readily from her happiness with Whittaker . We’re doing fine financial-ly—I haven’t gotten a big bonus in a while, but my day to day kills are high and my machine hasn’t been damaged in weeks .

If only I could shake the dread, I think hopelessly as I sit on my bed, scrolling through the limited free library for something I haven’t read a thousand times before . Across the room, Whittaker is sitting by Tessa’s bed, discussing some old friend . It’s gotten to the point that I feel the need to chaperone them .

At 2115 hours I kick him out, pleading a need for rest, disappointing Tessa .

I’m up at 0530, heading down to the immersion level by 0540, jack-ing in by 0600 . The rig I’ve selected is a little newer than my usual, not much more expensive, but a little more responsive . The helmet, for example, adjusts itself to weigh lightly on my neck . In addition, it smells of disinfectant instead of human stench .

“Craft?” It’s Whittaker, of course . I don’t respond, but I don’t block his intercom either . “I got a bonus yesterday .”“Did you now?” I say, fiddling with my finger controls . They could

use a little more oil . “Yeah, for killing one of their dictators or something . It wasn’t a big

deal . Just, you know, a night mission . Anyway, I got a bonus and… and I want to give it to you . To Tessa .”

I freeze . “We’re fine,” I state . “I didn’t say… I just want to do something for her .”A countdown to immersion appears in the lower left hand corner of

my display . Two minutes . “I don’t need your help,” I say, closing my hands around the gun

controls, straightening my limbs to synch with my machine . We are fine—I have enough credits for the week and I cannot bear to give him the satisfaction .

“I’m not helping you,” he says slowly . “I’m helping Tess .”“She’s not your dependent .”“She’s not your possession,” he says acidly as the countdown beeps

past the one-minute mark . I can hear the distaste in his voice, and I can feel the same flooding through my limbs .

“Well, she sure as hell isn’t yours .” Ten seconds .


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“My God, Craft…” he begins .The intercom switches off with immersion– And we’re in .

I arrange my cameras and take a few test steps around the belly of the helicopter in which we’re being delivered to our destina-tion . It’s piloted by a machine that is in turn piloted by some soldier somewhere, which makes me wonder if a chain like that could go on forever—maybe my physical body is just another machine, my soul hooked up to some kind of spiritual immersion rig . Maybe even my soul is just the machine some other entity finds useful to magnify its powers . Maybe that’s how it goes, stretching back to infinity .

Private Craft, prepare to exit the aircraft in a hostile area. My helmet has already informed me that we’re trying to repossess

an old hospital, one that apparently houses the command center of one of the republics or militias or gangs—it doesn’t matter which one .

Repeat, a hostile area. Shoot any human on sight.Unusually, the helmet provides a second countdown as the helicop-

ter shutters on downward, propellers roaring, carefully muted for my comfort .

Five seconds, Private Craft, it offers . Four. Three. At two I feel the jerk-crash of a rushed landing, and then…One. The doors roll open, and almost instantly I have to throw

Leighton Durham ’13


24

myself to the floor . The onslaught of enemy fire is like some kind of wave, breaking over the cabin . Almost everyone is damaged within the first seconds . I escape with some chipped side armor and a par-tially dented calf, nothing serious . Lying flat on my belly half-under a gun-rack I realize that the pilot has been totaled . The helicopter is now a death trap . It’ll be a few hours until they can get a new one here, informs my helmet calmly .

Proceed outside. Continue the mission, Private Craft.And I do . I sprint, leaping, taking full advantage of my superhuman

leg-strength to propel myself over the heads of the closest shooters and to keep up the speed until I reach the relative safety of a burned-out ambulance, firing wildly behind me as I go (Kills: 7) .

The NUSA has begun to gain the upper hand, firing continuously from what looks like a Gatling gun that’s mounted on the helicopter . It wasn’t meant to be used like this, but it’s effective, tearing a swath in the enemy forces large enough to allow several more machines out of the helicopter’s immediate radius . One of them, I notice with the help of my binocular cameras, is private Whittaker .

Continue the mission, Private Craft. I nod and take off at a brisk jog toward the looming hospital building ahead of me, fifteen or more floors of broken windows and crumbling ledges . It’s too dangerous to try and infiltrate it from the inside, given its supposed status as a command center . Instead, I grab onto a chunk of concrete window ledge and begin to haul myself upward . The machine takes over for a bit—kind of an autopilot . It’s good at climbing, and soon I’m up at an uncomfortable height, lowering myself into an old patient room . The remains of the machines lining the walls remind me of Tessa, but I push thoughts of my civilian life to the back of my mind and tread lightly out into the hallway, gun poised to shoot anything that moves .

There are three soldiers on that floor, and five on the next . I work methodically from room to room, firing into open doors (Kills: 15) . I stalk carefully up the stairs between floors—stairwells can be a death-trap, with their lines of sight stretching from the floor all the way up to the top floors, the enemy command . Down below a few other ma-chines are beginning the ascent, and I can just barely hear the rattle of gunfire below me .

“How many floors?” I ask my helmet . After a moment it hisses, Twenty-five .

On the twenty-third floor I step into the hallway and make my way down the line of doors . The space ends in a broken panoramic win-dow, a small lobby, an open staircase to the next floor . Oncology, reads a trim panel, miraculously intact . I sigh at the irony, firing into the next door (Kills: 17) .

And then, there’s a sound . It’s a small sound, a footfall against a bit


25

of grit on the cracked linoleum floor . I spin in my place, gun out, and for the first time I stop .

He’s come up behind me, and he’s clutching an old handgun, curi-ously antique looking, in both hands . He’s maybe eight, ten years old . I imagine the motion to kill him, curl my finger to do it, but I can’t help myself . I hesitate . And by the time I’ve processed the situation and pulled the trigger, he’s already shot me in the mechanical gut .

My machine splays out backwards, two cameras breaking as I fall . I lose all control in my limbs . The last thing I see, caught clearly in my rear-view eyes, is Whittaker swinging in through the window, shooting wildly into the hallway, the child blown backward, the old gun clatter-ing to the floor .

I scream, but of course my machine doesn’t, and the display flick-ers out and the rig seizes up around me, and I am jerked unceremoni-ously back to my normal body, gasping .

(Kills: 1)After a moment of keeping me frozen, the rig retracts itself along

my arms and legs, releasing me to fall onto my hands and knees on the treadmill platform . Finally, numbly, I crawl to my feet, pull the receipt out of the wall and leave the rig, padding barefoot down the steel–framed walkway, down the stairs, through the milling crowds of

Joanie Oates ’13


26

Sydney Young ’13


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new and old soldiers, all of them talking and crying and laughing and living . Tessa’s upstairs, still oblivious that I’ve just lost her . Probably she won’t believe it until she feels herself getting weaker and weaker, until the mortality finally hits her . The negative number on the receipt is bigger than any positive one I’ve ever had in my account . The ATM down at Central Services pops up payment options, and I click to mortgage my broken machine, trying desperately not to think about anything at all . I haven’t processed it yet . I haven’t even thought the word weakness, the word failure, his name .

I spend the next three hours sitting in the Rec Hall, staring at a wall . We were briefed about child soldiers; it shouldn’t have been any kind of surprise and it wasn’t, not really . It was just different enough to give me a split second of pause and to tear everything I’d worked for to the ground—not different enough to faze Whittaker, of course . The perfect soldier .

He will offer to pay for Tess, of course . Not for you, Ellery. For her. What am I going to say to that? Congratulations on finally proving me to be completely and totally useless. I can’t let him, I know that . But what on earth could I do to avoid it?

Eventually I stand up, push my bench in . The halls are quiet, most soldiers still in the rigs at this time of the morning . I pass a few sup-port staff, nodding mechanically to them as I go . I must look a wreck, clothes still sweaty from the mission, hair every which way .

Whittaker is in our hallway, at which I blink back tears . Probably he’s here to console, which I absolutely cannot face right now—but no, his posture is wrong . The look on his face, it isn’t sympathy, or cour-tesy . It’s closer to despair .

The door to our flat lists the time of death as 1047 . It’s sealed, of course, for sterilization . There’s a little plastic slip that I tear off to read out my new address—single occupancy, non-medical . Two floors down .

Tessa’s dead—dead at 1047, before my machine was even totaled . “She’s gone,” he breathes, staring .I don’t speak, don’t move a single muscle of my face . For whatever

reason, I am no longer nearly crying . I am too numb . I am too gone . “I’m sorry . Ellery . I’m so, so…” he continues .“Stop,” I shatter .“I didn’t…” “I said stop!” I scream, spinning around and throwing a fist right for

his jaw . He ducks, eyes wide, and I swing at him again almost blindly through the tears that have finally come and are now pouring from my face, as if to make up for lost time . I’m not fighting like a soldier, I’m fighting like a mental patient, landing blow after blow on any part of him as he ducks and counters and steps away, crying himself now, wet


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sobs, like a child . I don’t stop until exhaustion wins and we both slump, empty,

to the ground . There is a long silence . “I would have paid for it,” he says finally, and I look over at

him . He isn’t a pretty crier; his face is as blotchy and puffy as I imagine my own to be .

He would have paid for it . I can see it now, blatantly, across his face: Love . The kind of love Tess always deserved . “I know,” I say, wiping my eyes .

You would have given anything for her, just like I would have . But you have always had so much more to give . “I would have let you,” I whisper finally . In the end I would have . When I realized there was no other way . No uselessness could match losing her .

“I know,” he says after a bit . We are quiet again then for what seems like a lifetime . “It’s funny,” he begins . “I’ve… I’ve never known anyone who

died before .”I sit up straight at this, look over at him . “Me neither .” We both

lean back, stare up at the ceiling tiles . “Me neither, yeah .” And I see that kid’s methamphetamine-dependent, anarchist mother, sit-ting in Oncology a thousand miles away staring up at those ceiling tiles . Crumbling .

“I’m Sam, by the way,” he says, sticking out his hand . “I don’t think I ever really introduced myself .”

I watch his hand blankly until he retracts it . I want to hit him still, a little bit, but I also want to tell him everything about Tess and ask him what he knew, and I also want to slump against him right now and sleep for a hundred years, until the base grows si-lent around me and the rigs are all so old that the machines don’t listen to them anymore . I want to sink into the ground, to become part of the infrastructure .

There is a humming at my wrist . I glance down, seeing him do the same next to me . Immersion, 1330, it reads . Republic of Ottawa. Suspected enemy base.

“I’m on call,” I whisper . “I have to go .”


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Tapasya Das ’13


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Moments Sally Madigan ’15

I can still see myselfrunning through patchy grass,eyes squeezed shut under a moonless sky . A laughbubbles out of my lipsand bursts, fills the airlike the tolling of a bell and lingers there .

Only a snapshot, blurred, faded, haphazard, genuine . Briefly tangible in incessant recreations .Fleeting by, as moments do,then slipping quietly out the back door .

I would have it stay, thing thatin its nature drifts away . I ask where it’s headed,but it’s already forgotten .

Ysabel Coss ’14


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Celeste Lancaster ’13


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YeoJin Kwon ’13

Andrean Staff 2013Jessie Duncan ’13

YeoJin Kwon ’13

Celeste Lancaster ’13

Zack Meadows ’13

Jack Mihalcik ’13

Alexandra Porrazzo ’13

Nadiri Saunders ’13

Eliza Calkins ’14

Josue Chavez ’14

Ellen Copper ’14

Ysabel Coss ’14

Nathan Dan ’14

Mollie Gillespie ’14

Megan Hasse ’14

Nam Nguyen ’14

Carberry Campbell ’15

Sally Madigan ’15

Faculty AdvisorChris Childers

The Andrean is supported by the Amanda Leyon ’95 Memorial Fund for Creative Writing .

St. Andrew’s School350 Noxontown Road

Middletown, DE 19709(302) 378-9511

www.standrews-de.org

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