Easy City Rider: There’s plenty to do, celebrate during National Bike Month.

April 30, 2015 | by Matt Lewis

Did you wake up this morning wishing you could put on your best seersucker suit or vintage lace outfit, hop on your bike and cruise the city?

Or maybe your dream looks more like a ride along the Capital Area Greenbelt with 50 of your closest friends. Or, if your taste is less fashion and exercise and more food and socializing, you may see yourself at 3^rd in The Burg watching other people cruise by on a pedal-powered bike train.

If so, you might be one of Harrisburg’s bike people.

In May, Bike Harrisburg will host a variety of events to celebrate National Bike Month. In addition to such events as the “Seersucker and Lace Benefit Ride,” there are parties and socials and rides for good causes and rides just for the sake of riding.

Bike Harrisburg believes it has an event for you, whether you’re a serious bike-shorts-and-cycle-shoes type of person, a bicycle commuter or just a guy who takes the occasional ride around the neighborhood.

Ross Willard will gladly receive all takers. A veteran of Harrisburg biking, Willard is the founder of Recycle Bicycle and an unapologetic evangelist of all things two-wheeled.

“I promote bicycle culture by living it,” said Willard. “Harrisburg is a great to city to ride a bike in. I ride all the time, and I want to get people out to join me.”

Indeed, the city’s bicycling community has plenty to be excited about these days. Last year, artistic bike racks popped up all over downtown. This month, the state will begin the re-engineering and reconstruction of much of Front Street, which will include the city’s first dedicated bike lane.

In addition, Harrisburg Young Professionals, along with Bicycle South Central PA, is spearheading a movement to bring a bike share program to Harrisburg. Recently, the first community forum on the subject attracted a large crowd to Harrisburg University.

“We want to promote a bike-friendly community,” said Leigh Ann Urban, director of marketing and special events at the Harrisburg Downtown Improvement District and a panel member at the HYP bike forum. “Improving the bicycle community through programs like bike share will help attract new renters, businesses and help drive infrastructure improvements.”

For his part, Willard, who you might call the godfather of Harrisburg biking, will be out and about throughout the spring and summer at various festivals and gatherings promoting bicycle safety and green transportation. When he’s not at events like this month’s South Allison Hill Multicultural Festival, he probably can be found at his Recycle Bicycle headquarters in Uptown Harrisburg, wrench in hand, making sure the neighborhood kids’ bikes are in safe, working order.

Kelly Sangree is another of the city’s unofficial bicycle ambassadors.

“I drive when I need to, but I bike as much as I can,” she said.

Sangree is the owner/operator of a three-wheeled bike she describes as “similar to the old Good Humor bicycles they used to sell ice cream with.” Instead of a cooler on the front, you’ll see a box with benches, and she can be seen transporting kids and groceries and running errands around town.

Sangree started cycling when money was tight and discovered how much cheaper it was to maintain a bike than a car. Since then, she has gone from two wheels to three, but still relies on the bike for transportation as much as possible. Like Willard, she is a big proponent of the bicycle lifestyle and hopes to help initiate change in the city.

“If biking is made easier, more people will get out and do it,” she said. “I’m really looking forward to the bike lane on Front Street. Right now, I take my life into my hands every time I try to cross.”

Spring is finally here, and the climate is right in Harrisburg for all of the events planned for National Bike Month. So, do Ross over at Recycle Bicycle a favor and check your bike brakes, look both ways, and pedal your way through the month of May throughout the greater Harrisburg area.

Bike Harrisburg has a long list of events planned for National Bike Month. For the full rundown, please visit www.bikeharrisburg.org.

Dauphin County Wants Your Input

Is Dauphin County, PA ready for a Bike Share Program? You can do a number of things to get involved:

1.) Like Central PA Regional Bike Share Feasibility Study’s (tag the page) Facebook page to get involved in upcoming events.

2.) Take the survey by clicking here.

3.) Visit the website and educate yourself about the program.

A Seat in the Bard Room: Melissa Nicholson to helm international Shakespeare organization.

April 30, 2015 | by Lori M. Myers

Melissa Nicholson

You would think that Melissa Nicholson, executive director of Gamut Theatre Group, would be reciting Hamlet, Macbeth and Othello from the time she emerged from the womb; that the language of the Bard would roll off her tongue like honey and she’d be calling Elizabethan England her second home right from the start.

Think again.

“I had a terrible experience in high school with Shakespeare,” Nicholson recalls. “We read ‘Julius Caesar’ in ninth grade, and I hated it. I said ‘What is this?'”

But what a difference a few years and another Shakespeare play make. Nicholson attended Susquehanna University as a theater major, and the department performed a production of “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Suddenly, it all made perfect sense.

“The director was great,” she says. “That production opened the doors for me.”

Nicholson went on to perform at The Lost Colony, an outdoors theater in North Carolina, before founding Gamut Theatre with husband, Clark. At the beginning, the couple was producing children’s shows as the Popcorn Hat Players, but, soon, a city official suggested that Harrisburg could use a dose or two of Shakespeare.

The duo complied, performing the Bard’s plays (including “Julius Caesar”) in any space they could find, including a former Midtown bank building that is now home to Historic Harrisburg Association.

Shakespeare is now a permanent part of the theatrical family in Gamut’s Strawberry Square space and will continue to be when the group moves to its new location across the way on N. 4^th Street.

But Nicholson’s reputation and love of Shakespeare has now gone beyond our city limits to the international stage. In January, she was appointed vice president of the Shakespeare Theatre Association, an organization established to provide a forum for the artistic, managerial and educational leadership for theaters primarily involved with the production of the works of William Shakespeare. The association discusses issues and methods of work, shares resources and information, and acts as an advocate for Shakespearean productions and training.

Nicholson will serve as vice president for two years and then two years as president beginning January 2017, allowing for not only continuity on the board, but also ensuring long-term institutional memory for the organization as she’ll be invited to executive committee meetings thereafter, according to Patrick Flick, executive director of the Shakespeare Theatre Association.

Flick views Nicholson as the perfect combination of keen businessperson and artist.

“Melissa is quick with a smile, a laugh and a kind word,” he says. “She is a consummate artist manager. This is a model that many regional theaters across the country use to run their theaters and Gamut/Harrisburg Shakespeare is a perfect example of this. Her politic and good-humored manner combined with years of experience running a theater make her the perfect person to be the vice president and consequently next president of Shakespeare Theatre Association.”

Despite the honor, the very busy Nicholson had some doubts if she could take on this added responsibility.

“Last year, people approached me about being vice president,” Nicholson says. “At first, I told them that I can’t do that; I’m in the middle of a capital campaign. But I realized that it’s good for Gamut and for Harrisburg to put us on the Shakespeare map.”

The association, formed in 1991, has had its meetings in different locales across the United States where various member theaters and individuals meet to discuss their needs and challenges and to offer help when necessary. This past January, the association met in San Francisco. Next year, it will get together at Shakespeare at Notre Dame in South Bend, Ind.; the following year in Baltimore.

Nicholson’s love of everything Shakespeare has grown and flourished since that initial dreaded encounter with Julius Caesar. She now pays it forward to children and teenagers through Gamut’s theater school and the Gamut Theatre Summer Academy, where new generations are performing the Bard’s plays. Nicholson says they are studying a language they’re not used to, but a language they begin to understand.

“It helps them express things not available in the modern vernacular,” Nicholson says. “But I don’t teach ninth graders ‘Julius Caesar.'”

To learn more about Gamut Theatre and contribute to its capital campaign, visit www.gamuttheatre.org.

A Taco Tale: The humble food gets a celebrity makeover at Mid St8 Taco.

April 30, 2015 | by Stephanie Kalina-Metzger

Pippa Calland moves through the details of her life and accomplishments quickly, methodically and with dizzying speed, much like the way she wields her chef’s knife at Mid St8 Taco, her new enterprise at the West Shore Farmer’s Market in Lemoyne.

This biography starts with her unique appellation. Her parents, she explains, were enamored with Robert Browning and named her after a drama verse he penned called “Pippa Passes,” which tells the story of a young, silk-winding girl who sings as she completes her work and influences others to act for the good.

Like her namesake, Calland started her career early and embraces a strong work ethic and a belief in trying to make the world a better place.

“My first job in food was when I was 14, in Westport, Conn., working for Joanne Hush,” she said. “She studied in Paris and was Martha Stewart’s first business partner. My mom, too, was a great cook.”

Eventually, Calland pursued graduate studies in Buffalo, where she worked in a restaurant to put herself through school.

“They thought I could be the chef at a restaurant called Reginald’s,” she said. “That ended up being the deciding factor. I taught myself to cook there and was there for four years.”

She also started a program at Buffalo’s AIDS hospice, Benedict House, where she created a “Meals for Residents” program.

The press got wind of her efforts and, after making the news, she sent her videotape to the James Beard Foundation, which awarded her a fully paid scholarship to the Peter Kump’s New York Cooking School and a stipend for books from a pastry chef who had died of AIDS.

“It’s now a massive school called ‘The Institute for Culinary Education,’” said Calland.

Getting Noticed

After graduating, Calland returned to Buffalo before setting her sights on Manhattan, where she spent 10 years. There, she found herself at the helm of the Tuscan restaurant Le Madri and was recognized by Esquire Magazine as one of “13 chefs to look out for” in 2002.

Calland’s fame rose to a whole new level when Food Network’s “Chopped” came calling.

Calland took the screen test and accepted the reality chef challenge. Her episode, which aired in 2009, featured tofu, oysters and blueberries. To this day, she laughs about the tofu, calling the requirement to include the ingredient “karma” for talking smack about the humble, but versatile, bean curd. Calland ended up acing the task and winning the competition.

“Time management was really crucial,” she said. “I was 100-percent steady, although there was a bit of a personality battle between me and one of the guys. I said, ‘you haven’t won yet, son,’ as we waited between the last round.”

In 2011, Calland moved to Malibu, Calif., where she was contacted by Fresh One productions and asked to appear on Jamie Oliver’s “Chef Race.” She made the cut and joined others in begging, borrowing and bartering for their meals.

Calland also appeared on “Chef Wanted with Ann Burrell” before making a pivotal decision to move to Mechanicsburg and open Mid St8 Taco.

“I’d had enough working for other people and wanted to be on my own as an independent restaurateur,” she said.

Light, Local, Fresh

With a nod to her love for Mexican cuisine, Calland set up Mid St8 Taco at the West Shore Farmer’s Market.

She credits her grandfather for passing down his knowledge of Mexican food to her mother, who passed it on to Pippa. When she decided to open the business, she traveled to Oaxaca, Mexico, to study with a renowned culinary expert, Pennsylvania native Susanna Trilling.

Since opening, business has been so brisk that Calland has added tables and chairs in front of her stand to accommodate diners who go wild for her selection of tacos nestled in made-from-scratch corn tortillas.

Nicole Falcone from Susquehanna Township eats there often with her fiancé Patrick.

“We both love to eat, and her food is so good,” she said. “Everything is so light, local, fresh and authentic. She makes everything from scratch, including the condiments. We love her food so much that we hired her to cater our wedding.”

Calland, always evolving, decided to expand recently, adding a tortilleria to her taco stand. Sourcing organic corn from Cumberland County, Calland uses a motorized stone ground mill purchased from Texas and a mechanized press to turn out her tortillas quickly.

“What used to take five hours, can now be done in five minutes,” she said, adding that plans are in the works for wholesale distribution.

Calland said this current labor of love allows her to use her imagination, skill and creativity to come up with unique taco creations.

“I think we’ve hit a chord with Penn-Mex and this enables me to draw on all my years of training, using authentic underpinnings,” she said. “I have the freedom to follow my inner voice.”

And judging by her brisk business, customers wouldn’t want it any other way.

Mid St8 Taco is located inside the West Shore Farmers Market, 900 Market St., Lemoyne. For more information, visit www.midst8taco.com or call 717-737-9881.

Musical Notes: May Montage–Something for everyone this month.

April 30, 2015 | by Andrew Dyrli Hermeling

Whether you’re in the mood for literary songwriting, ethereal pop or genre-defying frenetic rock, May has a live show perfectly suited for your tastes. And, as spring nears its finish line, there is no better time for live music. Days are longer, and the evenings are warm. So either relax or move to the beat, just make sure to order a beverage and take in May’s musical offerings.

FREEDY JOHNSTON, 5/7, HMAC, TIME AND ADMISSION TBD
One of the ‘90s most acclaimed singer-songwriters, Freedy Johnston has continued to build upon his extensive repertoire. He will by stopping by the capital of the Commonwealth in support of his forthcoming LP, “Neon Repairman.” Like many of his contemporaries, Johnston has used a faltering record industry to his advantage, taking creative direction into his own hands and producing his most recent work through private fundraising. This is fitting considering he is often referred to as “a songwriter’s songwriter.” This is a perfect show for fans of Neil Young, Tom Petty or Elvis Costello.

ERIC + ERICA w/SHAWAN & THE WONTON, 5/8, 6:30PM, LITTLE AMPS DOWNTOWN
Dreampop seems to make a lot more sense come the warmer months. It’s hazy yet inviting, never in too much of a hurry, but not morose. Durham, N.C.’s Eric + Erica perfectly exemplify these particular characteristics. Their live performances feature such exotic instrumentation as autoharp and foot pedal bass synth. Yet their music is also somehow familiar and reassuring. Since the release of their first album “This is Where”in 2013, they have been constantly touring. They are wrapping up their second full-length album, due to be released later this year. They will be joined by local artist Shawan & the Wonton.

JON SPENCER BLUES EXPLOSION, 5/27, 8PM, ABBEY BAR, $15
Formed more than 20 years ago, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion has earned a reputation for musical iconoclasm and limitless experimentation. Drawing influences from such divergent styles as R&B, noise rock and rockabilly, they have worked with equally diverse artists such as Ad Rock, Elliott Smith and Steve Albini. Their live shows are high energy and electric, disorienting yet still somehow indisputably rock n’ roll. Either way, this is a show that will surely make you move.

Mentionables: Vacationer, 5/1, The Millworks; Cruisr, 5/8, FedLive; the Baseball Project, 5/15, HMAC; Steven Wilson, 5/23, Whitaker Center; Kelly Zullo, 5/30, Midtown Scholar

Upgrade Your Anchors: Good style starts from the bottom, up.

April 30, 2015 | by Dave Marcheskie

Getting a fresh pair of kicks as a kid was the best feeling, right? Inside that future diorama vessel was one’s status. A new pair of Nike Air or Adidas shell tops (Airwalks once) would always impress your classmates.

As an adult, nothing will make a man more impressive than a pair of proper footwear—the true anchors of men’s style.

After this column debuted in February (I’ve noticed a lot more pocket squares around town, nice job!), a lot of guys asked questions regarding shoes. What color goes with what color suit? Wingtips or double monk-strap? And, if you can’t name one men’s shoes designer other than Nike, we’re in trouble.

Basics. Men’s shoes are broken down into four main food groups: oxfords, loafers, casual and athletic. Oxfords are any variety of dress shoes with laces; loafers are without laces. Casual can be boots, boat shoes or sneakers, but not running shoes—that’s athletic. Think Converse’s iconic Chuck Taylors vs. Reebok ZPump Fusion—a ‘90s comeback!

Any man should have at least a pair of black and brown dress shoes, any variety. Match your shoes with your belt—always! Black shoes work best with navy, gray, charcoal or black suits. Brown shoes pair well with navy, tan, coffee and even some medium-gray suits. Wanna go further? Oxblood-colored shoes work best with blue suits and walnut plays nicely with light gray. For better visuals, there are plenty of shoe-and-suit combo charts online and on Pinterest.

Fellas, they might be comfortable, but please stop wearing the square-toed, thick-soled Dockers or Rockport slip-ons that come in wonderful shades of matte Tootsie Roll. Stop it. You helped kill cobblers. If there’s one thing to splurge a little on, let it be shoes.

A well-dressed, professional man should have polished, hard-soled dress shoes. Think about it: Our eyes are attracted to the shine and quality. Take a close look at Jimmy Fallon’s shoes next time.

Remember: clean, simple details truly matter.

If you can afford it, choose Allen Edmonds ($250 to $385). Me? I try to fit my 12E feet at shoe outlets like DSW or online. eBay will even have discounted off-season styles.

You’ll never go wrong with a classic pair of wingtips with broguing (tiny holes). These often showcase a shoemaker’s well-stitched leatherwork. Style fact: the holes were originally designed for Celtic countrymen to allow bog water to seep out. Choose a lighter brown pair with a deep burnish at the toe. You can also achieve this look yourself with dark shoe polish.

If you want something a little trendier, the double-monk strap is top choice. Pick up a pair without broguing for a streamlined look. Double monk-straps are great versatile anchors for work and play. You can wear ‘em with chinos or jeans with either a blazer or button-down.

Want to really stand out? Spectators are great wingtips for summer. They’re the two-tone, bone-and-biscuit shoe that’ll impress anyone at that wedding or garden party.

If you already have decent dress shoes, I have one easy and affordable tip that’ll set you apart—colored laces. You may have noticed this style creep up in out-of-the-box kicks, as well. Swap out those brown or black dress shoelaces for your favorite color. You can get a four-pack for $7 on Amazon. This is especially great for your casual leather boots and suede chukkas.

“Boat dockers” are another great staple for summer. Try rocking a colored canvas pair instead of the brown leather Sperry’s. Canvas shoes are more breathable and infinitely better looking than sandals with socks—or Crocs.

Once you’ve plopped down a pretty penny for your penny loafers, you must invest in shoetrees. They are usually made of cedar (to defeat stinky feet) and fit inside your shoe to help keep its form and shape. This decreases unwanted creases where your toes flex.

Since the cobbler closed downtown, your best bet is to head to Top Shelf Menswear in New Cumberland. I’ve noticed Dave Wise has a forest of shoetrees and will prune your bad habits with his extensive knowledge on this stuff.

Wise would even tell ya, “Keep ‘em shined!” No Internet banana-peel tricks. Just use some good, old-fashioned shoe polish, an old T-shirt and elbow grease. Women may still have our closets beat with quantity of shoes, but we should at least battle back with quality. Remember, it always feels good to upgrade your anchors.

Our Sharp Press Man, Dave Marcheskie, is a reporter for abc27 News. If you’d like to ask Dave a question, please email it to [email protected]. He may use it in a future column.

This column is sponsored by and the shoes were provided by Top Shelf Menswear, 300 Bridge St., New Cumberland, 717-770-2080. www.topshelfmenswear.com.

CASA Student Scribes: Fade Away

April 30, 2015 | by Yaasmeen Piper

My eyes flutter open. The light hanging above my head nearly blinds me. The first thing I see: the wooden ceiling covered in chipped red paint. To my right is a wall full of old wine bottles, cardboard boxes with baby clothes spilling out, and numerous bobble heads my dad swore he threw out.

I’m in my shed.

I have no idea how I got here, but I guess it’s better than laying in a ditch somewhere or waking up with a face tattoo. Now that I think about it, I grab my face feeling for any abnormalities when red catches my eye. Blood. With having two older brothers the sight of blood is nothing new, but seeing my hands and t-shirt covered in it and possessing no memory of how it got there gives me an uneasy feeling. I scan my body looking for any open wounds. Nothing, and other than the throbbing in my head, I feel no pain. I gradually sit up and immediately feel hundreds of tiny soldiers stomp around in my head. I rub my temples but the throbbing continues. Tiny drops of blood scatter around my sneakers. I raise my head to see a trail of blood leading to the door. I follow them. I expect to see a dead body at the end of it. It’s probably Jack the Jock. I always hated that guy with his perfect hair and perfect teeth. Maybe my drunk self ripped them out. The thought kind of makes me smile.

The trail ends at the door. Slowly, I creep the door open, preparing for the worst. I’m greeted by blinding sunlight. I examine my surroundings: grass with daisies and tulips popping up from the ground, a tall oak tree, which I jumped off in seventh grade and broke my leg, and a white house full of parents that are probably looking for an explanation. No dead body, but a bloody handprint smudged at the doorjamb as if the person stumbled out of the shed. Around the fingernail impressions, four tiny indents mar the wood, each displaying a piece of purple paint. I match my hand to them. The fingers are too skinny to be mine, which confirms my original theory: the blood scattered around the shed and on my clothes doesn’t belong to me.

The Monday morning chatter at school consists of Natalie Thelman’s party. The hundreds that attended recalled their favorite moments (like when Trish threw up on Ava and Chad did the “chicken challenge,” whatever that is). Those who didn’t go told stories they heard had from others. I don’t remember any of it, the entire night a blur. The last thing I remember after walking in with Travis is seeing Lila. From twenty feet away, I still smelled her: fresh strawberries and rain. It made me sick watching her straddle Jack the Jock that night, knowing we had broken up just two weeks before.

I find Travis in the main hall, eager to tell him about the blood I found in the shed. I wave at him from a few feet away, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. His body stiffens, face goes pale as if he’s going to puke any second.

“Hey Travis,” I call after him, catching up to him. “Why do you…” I pause, following his gaze. About ten police officers scatter around the hallway. Two officers talk to our principal, Ms. Andrews. The others chat up some students who look like they’re about to crap their pants.

“Ah man, this is it, “ says Travis, trembling. “I knew I shouldn’t have downloaded all that illegal music. Oh god, I can’t make it in prison. Do you see this face? I’ll be someone’s bitch within the first twenty-four hours.”

“Calm down. I’m sure they aren’t here for you.” But my heartbeat quickens. What if they know about the blood in the shed? What if I really did hurt someone? What if I murdered someone?

“…I’ll move to Canada and change my name, “ Travis continues. “William Chatterberry. Yeah, I like that.“

“Hey,” I call to a girl named April as she struts my way. “Do you know why they’re here?” I motion toward the cops.

She looks both ways then leans in.

“That Charlie girl went missing Friday night,” she whispers. “The last time anyone saw her was at Natalie’s party.”

Charlie Westbrooks, Crestwood’s infamous rebel. I have creative writing class with her. I usually joke around in that class unlike Charlie. Her poetry and stories are rich and oozing with pain. Every time she presents I get lost in her chaotic world. I just never heard someone so…broken.

Travis lets out a loud sigh of relief and collapses back onto the lockers.

“Do they have any leads?” I stuff my shaking hands in my pocket.

April shakes her head. “Not that I know of.”

“Excuse me.” I squeeze past her and start toward the officers. I keep my eyes focused on everything but them. I lean down to tie my shoe close enough to overhear one of the conversations.

“Last time I saw her she was in the pool—fully clothed,” says a student. “She was alone.”

“Do you know anything about Ms.Thelman’s car?”

He shakes his head.

Suddenly a cold hand grips my arms and pulls me into a dark classroom.

“What the hell?” I stare down at my little sister, Riley.

“I should ask you the same thing.” She shoves her phone in my face. I pull her hand back and stare at the picture. Natalie, in a black crop top and skinny jeans, chugs beer straight from the keg while a plethora of teens cheer her on.

“Wow,” I say, sarcasm lacing my voice. “Natalie sure is impressive.”

“Not that, you idiot.” She takes the phone and zooms in on two people. It’s a moment before I realize one of them is me. The other Charlie. It looks like we’re stepping out into the backyard. My arm is laced around hers. I’m smiling like an idiot staring at the ground. Charlie stares into the camera looking like a deer in headlights. My focus zooms in on her hand resting on the doorway, mostly her fingernails. Her purple fingernails.

Oh god. “Oh god.” My hands shake so severely I nearly drop the phone.

“I know. Garrett told me he saw Charlie pulling off in Natalie’s car with someone. He couldn’t identify the passenger. Let’s keep it that way. If the police saw this you could get in some serious trouble.”

They’d take me into questioning no doubt. What would I say? Sorry officer, I was too drunk to remember anything, but I did wake up with her blood all over me and I’m just now telling you about it. I might as well just write guilty on my forehead.

“Crap crap crap,” I pace the floor. “Who else has seen this?”

“I found it on Garrett’s phone. He left at the party.”

“Delete it. Now.” My voice came out more menacing than intended. I can’t shake this uneasy feeling in my gut. The last time I got that drunk was when my father caught my mother cheating on him. It tore the family apart and I was a wreck for months, but even then I remembered most things. This night comes up completely blank.

“Even if I did delete it, what if someone else has it on camera? What if the police see it?” says Riley.

I press my palms into my eyes. She’s right. There’s only one thing left to do.

“I need to find Charlie.”

Walking home I keep looking over my shoulder expecting a swat team to roll out of the bushes at any moment. I thought it was over when the cops left the school until I see them posted in Joe’s Coffee Shop and some local gas stations. I panic and quickly alter my path. I cut toward Perch Park. Silence and tall trees with decaying leaves surround me. Most importantly, it was cop free. My body relaxes. Something I haven’t done since Sunday morning.

A car engine roars in the distance. I see sunbeams bounce off the red and blue siren. I freeze. Cops. Without thinking, I dash through the woods, my arms in perfect right angles. I keep running until my lungs overflow with air and my knees begin to give out. I collapse onto the leaves and my back strikes a cold, metal object. I groan in agony. I look behind me to see a pastel, blue convertible. Band stickers cover the passenger’s side door and a pair of tiny flip flops hang from the mirror. This car could only belong to one person: Natalie Thelman.

Charlie has to be close and I need to find her before the police do. I scan the car. Glass litters the front seat. An orange towel, spotted with red is tucked under the driver’s seat . A blue cabin, overgrown with vines and moss, and looking like it could collapse at any moment, appears a few feet away. A shadow moves across the second story window. My heart skips a beat. A tiny voice in the back of my mind echoes: Charlie. I grab the largest stick I could find and creep closer, peeking through the window. There’s a single floral couch. No Charlie in sight. I inch toward the front door and pull the knob. Unlocked. If the person who kidnapped/ murdered Charlie is here they sure are dumb. What criminal leaves the door unlocked? Unless there’s something in here they want me to find.

The wood creaks under my Doc Martens. The room reeks of dust and moss, the sun escaping from the cracked windows my only source of light. The thump of footsteps comes closer. I tiptoe up the stairs holding the stick out in front of me, stopping at the second to top step. I lean against the wall until I look into one of the bedrooms. There’s a twin bed with a thick white blanket. I was about to dismiss the room as clear when a male body moves into view. Tattoos run down his arm and poke out of the back of his black tank top. He talks into a flip phone and by his red face and the vein popping out of his forehead, I can see he’s not happy.

I tighten my grip around the stick and inch closer.

I’m going to die. This man is ten times bigger than me, but what do I have to lose? Soon I’ll be the number one suspect in the missing Charlie case.

A step closer.

Who will get my things? I never had time to write a will. Oh god, I hope Travis clears my internet history.

I step into the second floor hallway. The guy slowly turns my way when I feel damp hands wrap around my mouth and pull my shirt. They drag me down the hall. I had no time to scream or react before they slam me against a wall and flick on the light. I was about to protest but then I notice the thick red curls. I smile. Charlie.

My mouth opens as her chipped, purple fingernails crush my throat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” says Charlie. “ Do you have a death wish?” Her grip tightens. My windpipe grows narrower and narrower.

“You’re. Choking. Me.” I gasp. Her face remains stern but she removes her hand. I dive in and hug her, happy that she’s here and breathing instead of a bag of bones. Her arms shoot up as if she’s about to be arrested. I hear something crunch. I feel a thick cloth on her lower abdomen.

I reach my hand toward it. “Hey what’s—” She smacks my hand away.

“Charlie?” I hear a male voice call.

“I’m fine, Lee.”

“Lee?” I whisper to her. “You’re friends with your kidnapper?” Oh no. She’s delusional.

“Kidnapper? What are you. . .you need to go now.” Charlie nudges me toward the door but I push her hand away.

“No. Not until we call the police and I get some damn answers. Half the town is looking for you.”

Her expression softens and I swear I see tears swell in her eyes. “They’re… they’re looking for me?”

“Yes. That’s what the town does when people go missing. Now, let’s go.” I grab her by her arm but she slaps my hands away.

“No. I can’t.”

“You have to. People think you’re dead.”

“Let them think that.”

“And they think I did it.” Well, that’s not exactly true. Not yet anyways. “Why was your blood all over my shed?” I look down at her lower abdomen. “What happened that night?”

“It’s better you don’t remember.”

I step closer to her. “What happened to you?”

“Leave it alone, Noah.” She turns away from me.

“Tell me. Did I hurt you?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Tell me. I can take it.”

She shakes her head.

“Please.”

Charlie stands face to face with me. She searches for something in my eyes, then speaks. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

Yaasmeen Piper is a senior at Capital Area Charter School for the Arts.

Peace in the City: In Riverfront Park, a tranquil, inspirational respite.

April 30, 2015 | by Missy Smith

Walking or jogging through Riverfront Park, you may get a serene feeling as you enter the Peace Garden.

You might see garden coordinator Gwen Lehman in the dirt, volunteering her time to give some love to the various flowers planted throughout the natural, tranquil space. Or maybe you have only seen the garden as a blur through the car window while traveling down N. Front Street.

As May brings its sun and warmth, Peace Garden will begin to show its true magnificence, offering an oasis of calm and beauty amidst the busy city.

Up for the Challenge

Peace Garden traces its roots to 1990, when Harrisburg pediatrician James Jones returned from a gathering of the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War in Hiroshima, Japan.

“The co-founder of [IPPNW], Dr. Bernard Lown, challenged us to create parks to affirm life’s fragility and the human spirit’s resilience,” recalled Jones, who at the time was president of the Harrisburg-Hershey chapter of U.S. affiliate Physicians for Social Responsibility (PSR). “There are many parks and statues dedicated to wars, battles and soldiers, but few to the protection of the environment and the pursuit of peace.”

He came home inspired and ready to act and was met with a positive response from members of PSR and city officials in Harrisburg.

The physicians envisioned an artistically designed, natural public space with annual and perennial plants, striking sculptures and a coming together as a community.

“The Peace Garden planted flowers and trees for beauty and ideas promoting peace, justice and the environment, in plaques and sculptures overlooking the beautiful Susquehanna River,” explained James.

Local organizations, churches, rotary foundations and social clubs donated the plaques.

“[The donors] really represent a broad spectrum of Harrisburg,” said Lehman. “As stated on the dedication plaques at each of the designated, three-block areas along the beautiful Susquehanna River, the Peace Garden is dedicated to the pursuit of peace and the preservation of our earth.”

The overall message, she said, is that the natural world, nations and the welfare of individuals are inextricably linked.

“We hope that people take the time to stop and read the messages on plaques,” she said. “They are some of the most thoughtful ideas from people all over the world.”

A Major Joy

Writer, artist and oral surgeon Frederick Frank—who worked alongside Dr. Albert Schweitzer in Africa—created life-size sculptures depicting the infamous destruction in Hiroshima, while allowing viewers to reflect on the power of new life and hope that is born after horror.

Long-time coordinator Michael Lehman designed the main garden beds when PSR first created the Peace Garden. Five years ago, Gwen Lehman took over as coordinator, and, each year, along with PSR volunteers, leads the task of planting all of the flowers and beautifying the garden.

“Physicians for Social Responsibility is primarily in charge of the design, maintenance and upkeep, but the Peace Garden has been a true partnership with the city of Harrisburg,” said Lehman, explaining that the city provides the land, water and some mowing. “They have been great to work with during these 20 years. This is a really positive public/private partnership that I’d really love to see more of.”

This cooperation has allowed Harrisburg-area residents to take time away from their busy lives and to be inspired and to enjoy the peace that only nature can offer.

“I feel good when I’m there, partly because of its beauty and partly because of the inspiration of the things I read when I’m there,” said Lehman. “It is a major joy for me.”

Planting and pruning, she experiences first-hand how much the garden has touched people.

“Almost always, someone stops with appreciation or they call things out as they are running by,” she said. “I think people really do appreciate the fact that there is a place like this in the city. Sometimes, people will hand me $20 while I’m working.”

Lehman also believes that the Peace Garden brings people together in a community who otherwise can be alienated from one another.

“There are typically deep divisions in greater Harrisburg, between people who are financially challenged and who are not,” she said. “Peace Garden is really a space where all aspects of our community come together. We all need to be reminded of the power of ideas for good, and I think natural beauty is the most effective way of taking us outside of ourselves.”

Keep Peace Alive

Maintaining the Peace Garden takes a large commitment of resources.

PSR has a core group of volunteers dedicated to ensuring that the garden continues to thrive, but, as with any volunteer effort, donations of time are much needed, especially around the middle of May.

“In one day, we’ll put in about 1,000 individual plants,” Lehman said. “That’s the time of greatest need in terms of physical labor.”

PSR also needs volunteers who can help with routine weeding in the summer, she added.

And, of course, donations are always welcomed.

“This is an expensive endeavor, to put in the number of flowers we plant every year,” said Lehman. “We put in the irrigation system, which was expensive. We hire a landscaping company to do heavy lifting for us, and they edge all of the beds.”

Each October, PSR holds an annual banquet, which is a major fundraiser for the garden. Also, it has established an endowment fund through The Foundation for Enhancing Communities to help support the work.

“All the funds to carry out the mission are privately provided by Physicians for Social Responsibility, other individuals and organizations,” said Jones.

Those wishing to donate funds to the Peace Garden can do so by contacting The Foundation for Enhancing Communities at 717-236-5040 or by visiting www.tfec.org.

For more information about the Harrisburg-Hershey chapter of the Physicians for Social Responsibility and the Peace Garden, visit www.psr.org/chapters/harrisburg.

Eat With Purpose: Good food, a good cause at the monthly Harrisburg Food Truck Feast.

April 30, 2015 | by Rebecca Hanlon

Olivia and Rodrigo Madrigal

Olivia Madrigal wants to give something back to the city that has supported her through the years.

As the co-owner of MAD Sandwiches and the organizer of 3rd in The Burg’s Harrisburg Food Truck Feast, Madrigal looked on the masses that flood Midtown Harrisburg those Friday nights and wondered if they could all work together to do something great.

“Any time I’ve ever had the opportunity to give back, I’m overwhelmed by how great it feels,” Madrigal said. “I wanted to magnify that.”

Madrigal came up with the idea to benefit a different Harrisburg-based charity each month during the feast, which takes place at N. 3^rd and Harris streets every third Friday of the month through October.

A different organization has been selected for each month, and donation boxes and cash jars will be set out so visitors can make contributions, Madrigal said. While she hasn’t set any goals for how much she wants to collect each month, she knows every little bit helps feed someone who is hungry or clothe someone who has nothing.

“We wish we had enough resources to reach out beyond Harrisburg, but we don’t want to stretch ourselves too thin,” Madrigal said. “Instead, I think we can make a greater impact on the organizations that are doing good work right here.”

She also hopes to give incentives to encourage people to donate, such as coupons to use at the food trucks or random drawings for event tickets. Whatever helps people give, she said, is worth it.

Food trucks that participate in the monthly event also are doing their part to give back. Part of the $60 fee for each participating truck covers advertising, a special events license from the city and the rental of portable toilets. Any money left over after those initial fees will be donated to charity, Madrigal said.

The first charity to benefit during the April feast was the Central Pennsylvania Food Bank. Brad Peterson, director of communications for the organization, said they usually ask for non-perishable items, such as peanut butter, canned tuna and canned fruits and vegetables. Cereal, pasta, rice and soups also tend to be in high demand, he said.

The impact the food bank has on Dauphin County alone is substantial, Peterson said.

In 2014, Dauphin County residents received 7.4 million pounds of food, or the equivalent of 6.1 million meals, he said. The food bank served about 22,500 households in Dauphin County that same year, he said.

Dauphin County is one of 27 counties the food bank serves and has just a fraction of the 55,000 people who use its services each week.

“The food bank relies on donations to fulfill our mission,” he said. “More than 80 percent of the food we distribute comes from donations, so public support and donations are vital to our work and the people we serve.”

The YWCA of Greater Harrisburg is the charity selected for May, Madrigal said.

The organization provides care to single women and children through its emergency shelter, and it empowers those women through its housing program, clothing and food bank, life skills education and drug and alcohol recovery support groups.

Tina Nixon, chief executive officer of the YWCA of Greater Harrisburg, said she thought adding a charity element to the feast was a great way to make the event about everyone in the community.

“It’s good that the community is engaged in what we do,” Nixon said. “We see a lot of women come here who want to give back later. There seems to be this constant circle of support in Harrisburg, and I’m so grateful for it.”

The YWCA is often in need of new bath towels, hand towels, pillows and twin sheet sets, Nixon said. They also need umbrellas, underwear and socks. Gift cards for groceries, clothing stores and other items also are accepted.

Many of the women who seek refuge in the emergency shelter arrive with just the clothes on their backs, Nixon said. Anything the shelter can give them—from a toothbrush to a new sweater—is a great comfort, she said.

Madrigal hopes to spread the word about each month’s charity through announcements on NASH FM 106.7, as well as on the event’s Facebook page.

Some people didn’t come to the feast last year, she said, because they felt they didn’t have anywhere to park. She hopes people keep in mind that they can park directly in the lot where the trucks are set up at no additional cost.

For Madrigal, the opportunity to give back is a call she has to answer. She still has a few charities to add to the calendar for the rest of the year, but she knows that any organization they choose will benefit.

“There’s a lot of need in our community,” she said. “We want to give back without seeking anything in return. This city means that much to us.”

Harrisburg Food Truck Feast takes places every third Friday of the month during 3^rd in The Burg. The trucks gather in the parking lot at N. 3^rd and Harris streets starting at 5 p.m. For more information on the featured food trucks and charities, visit their Facebook page: HBG Food Truck Feast. This month, 3^rd in The Burg takes place May 15.

CASA Student Scribes: Advancing Technology

April 30, 2015 | by Kasey Smith

She was beautiful.

Nolan spotted her at the far end of the garage, behind towers of cardboard boxes and avalanches of decades-old fallen debris. He pushed his glasses further up his nose, then rethought and pulled them off to wipe the dust from them. Surely it had messed with his vision—Uncle Ted couldn’t really have had such an old relic in his possession, could he? He hadn’t been interesting enough.

But she was interesting. Nolan waded through the junk towards the treasure, bobbing and weaving around bicycles with tangled pedals and tables stacked with rusty tools until he was there, standing in front of an old Apple II, the second Wozniak wonder of the computer world. This was technological history, right here! Why did Uncle Ted have one? He hated technology; he rarely touched the TV remote, even to the day he died.

Nolan bent down and scrubbed away the grime on the screen with the hem of his sleeve. The poor thing needed heavy TLC, but otherwise seemed in pretty good condition. No cracks in the screen, no jammed keys in the keyboard, and even a functional-looking cassette player. Maybe the stale air of the garage had preserved the Apple II in the height of her beauty, so Nolan could discover her for himself, like realizing the best-wrapped present under the Christmas tree was meant for him.

“Mallory! Look at this!”

He heard reckless stomping around him. Mallory, black hair and oval face smudged with dirt, surfaced from the ruined city of junk. “What? An old computer?”

Nolan heaved a dramatic sigh. “Yes. Ancient. One of the very first Apples.”

“Oh, God,” Mallory said, rolling her eyes. “Is this the part where you criticize my iPhone? Is it too mainstream for you?”

“Look at it, Mals.” He straightened up, gestured to the computer, and invited her to look: the Apple II consisted of a big, blocky monitor, the white casing yellowed with age. It sat on a keyboard three times the size of modern-day models, the keys brown. Despite Nolan’s eagerness, she shook her head.

“I can see it. It’s an old computer.”

“It belongs in a museum!”

“Okay, Indy.”

“Wait! No, she doesn’t!” Nolan whirled back around to the computer, tapping a few keys experimentally. “She’s still salvageable. Maybe I could get her in working order again.”

“Why would you waste your time on it? And why would you call it a she?”

He glared at her over his shoulder. “Because I, unlike you, appreciate history. And you call your laptop Babygirl.”

Mallory scoffed. “Whatever, bro. Have fun trying to download porn onto that.”

Of all Uncle Ted’s possessions, the Apple II was the most valuable. To him, at least. It might get a decent offer if he auctioned it off, but the history contained in this technological landmark was worth more than anything else on the market. Why sell it to some collector who’ll stick it behind glass and do nothing else?

No, the Apple II deserved a thorough examination—and maybe a restoration, if at all possible. Computers were meant to be used. What could happen if he could get a computer nearly fifty years old to work again? How well would it function? What if he could upgrade it to the level of computers today? If he could restore such an old computer, whose processing power was like an infant’s compared to the abilities of those today, he might end up in technological history, too. His name would appear with the Apple II.

Nolan set up shop in his tool shed and got to work. He fixated on the Apple II and made it his mission to bring her back to life, because the world didn’t deserve to lose such a priceless piece of history, such a precious artifact.

Wow. He was turning into Indiana Jones.

But he was certain that this Apple II was as precious as the Holy Grail, or maybe even more. He got the first glimpse of her capability early on into his restoration.

One day, after only a few weeks of scrubbing and updating and programming, Nolan plugged it in and hit the power button. The fans whirred and the screen flickered to life. Nolan fell from his stool when it blazed bright white, awaiting his commands.

“Yes! Oh, my God, I did it!”

When he’d returned to his seat, the screen had darkened again and a welcome message started to scroll across the screen, but the letters flickered and froze. Nolan scowled. “What’s wrong? I cleaned you up. Maybe you have the wrong parts.”

Nolan reached for his screwdriver to take it apart again, but when he sat back down to begin the task, a new message had appeared.

RECONFIGURE BINARY SYSTEM

Nolan’s jaw dropped. A computer that actually told him what she needed? Computers could only tell the user what was wrong: they couldn’t offer solutions.

At least, most couldn’t.

Nolan set the screwdriver aside, found the command line interface, and started typing. He’d need to find some way to re-implement the entire binary code (more likely he’d have to replace the whole thing instead of fixing a few errors, with a system so old). Maybe he could find software that would download the whole code once he removed the corrupted data—

RECONFIGURE BINARY SYSTEM FOR ROMAN ALPHABET

Nolan blinked. “But you’re a computer. You need binary code to function. You aren’t able to understand letters.”

RECONFIGURE BINARY SYSTEM FOR ROMAN ALPHABET

Nolan spoke aloud as he typed back, a habit that always annoyed Mallory. “No.”

RECONFIGURE RECONFIGURE RECONFIGURE

Nolan sighed, his fingers tapping away. “Open binary system.”

Clearly this computer was capable of more than Nolan had fantasized. If she wanted to learn the alphabet, then her capacity extended far beyond what Wozniak intended. How could this be achieved in the seventies? And if she could do all this, how was she lost from fame, stowed away in Uncle Ted’s garage?

Now Nolan had to see the Apple II’s limits. He had to test her thresholds, push her to her brink. He set out to convert her to using the alphabet in her coding, and then began adding other programs like Java. Downloading should have taken ages, but she gobbled the program up almost instantaneously. She wanted to learn, to improve, to exceed expectations. She wanted to reach her own brink.

In return, Nolan felt like she pushed him towards his. He slaved over the Apple II, unwilling to tear himself away from it. It was less about the wonderment and fame now—it was about the Apple II and what she could do. He had to keep going for her, if no one else. He would push himself to push her. Which one would reach their limit first?

He could tell Mallory started to worry about him. She’d peek in on him working and ask how he was doing. He tried to give her a quick answer so she would go away, but she always liked to linger and ask more questions. Sometimes she’d bring him snacks to eat, or insist he’d stop for the night and sleep; but couldn’t she see that his work was more important than eating and sleeping? Besides, the Apple II didn’t want him to stop.

One day, while laboring over the beautiful computer, Nolan noticed a new message appear on the screen. He set down his box cutter (he was pruning wires) and turned to the computer screen, wiping the sweat from his face.

UPLOAD CONSCIOUSNESS

He wasn’t even fazed. He typed back. “How? A human mind is impossible for technology to capture. There’s no way your circuits have the storage, no matter what you want.”

DOWNLOAD CONSCIOUSNESS TO CIRCUITS THEN INSTALL.

He sighed. “With what? How do you propose I do this?”

UPDATED CIRCUITS WITH EXTENDED STORAGE CAPACITY

“You’re so clever.” How did she know he’d bought new circuit boards last week? He pulled them from the drawer he’d stuffed them into and arranged them neatly on his worktable. “Now what?”

COMBINE BIOLOGICAL CIRCUITS WITH TECHNOLOGICAL

“What?”

The Apple II wouldn’t answer again; what choice did he have? He had to give her what she wanted.

He grabbed the box cutter again, rolled up his sleeve, and put the tip to the crook of his elbow. Why was his hand shaking? He was doing what the Apple II wanted. She wouldn’t lead him wrong, would she?

He drew a straight line into the skin of his elbow and held it over the circuit boards. This might contaminate and destroy them. How was this supposed to upload human ingenuity? How was he supposed to share his consciousness with the Apple II? Suddenly a terrible thought entered Nolan’s mind as the circuit boards reddened: maybe she never wanted to share it at all.

He managed to install them just before he collapsed to the floor.

Kasey Smith is a senior at Capital Area School for the Arts Charter School.

CASA Student Scribes: Good Company

April 30, 2015 | by Grace Beatty

Cookie had been missing for a good three days now. No amount of calling could summon him, nor did the stale tuna bits sitting on the back porch lure him home. Sheridan sat on the front stoop all afternoon, waiting for her beige and brown pal. He never showed for his twelve-to-four catnap, not even with his favorite mat placed right in the sun.

With a sigh she heaved herself off the stoop and walked through the young suburbia, halting at the main road. Only thirteen-year-olds were allowed to explore into the forest beyond — her mother’s rule. But what if Cookie had gone in there? She couldn’t wait three years! Looking both ways, she hurried over the asphalt and disappeared down the ridge. The warm spring breeze drifted through the branches above, caressing their baby flower buds. New grass sprigs folded like feathers under her bright orange rain boots.

A loud crunch distracted her. Sheridan turned to see a thistle bush toppled over. A boy her age sprawled on top, startled eyes fixed on her. On instinct she ran as fast as the plastic boots could take her, the pursuer at her heels, footsteps drawing closer with every passing tree. Tripping through brush, she fell to her stomach at the edge of a drop-off, its cliff falling to a rocky outcropping below. Her head spun, the severe drop spinning before her eyes. Scrabbling back from the end she ran into a pair of legs. A hand clutched her shoulder.

“Don’t move!”

Sheridan stared into the trees, frozen. The hand helped her up and turned her around. A boy’s frightened eyes stared into hers, his face dirty, hair littered with small bush leaves. His other hand held a pocketknife, its end pointed at Sheridan’s ribs.

“Don’t move.”

She nodded, gulping her fear.

His gaze hardened. “What are you doing in my woods?”

“Your woods?”

He raised the knife to her head, shaking. “Yes, my woods!”

Tears burned her cheeks. “I’m just looking for my cat!”

He cocked his eyebrows.

“His name is Cookie, it’s on his collar. He’s brownish.”

The boy snorted. “I ain’t seen no collared cat.” He scanned the trees. “Who’s with you?”

“Nobody.”

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Sheridan obeyed. The boy pulled her forward, putting one hand to her neck, knife to her lower torso.

“Okay, go. Slowly.”

She eased through the bushes, the hand pushing her forward, steering her past thick trunks and roots and over an enormous fallen oak. Descending a final hill, they came to a small ravine. The boy’s eyes darted toward the forest behind them, then pushed Sheridan toward an old pine trunk that bridged the two sides.

“You first.”

Looking over the edge, she saw the bubbling stream flow past, wet pebbles reflecting the springtime sun. She gripped the log with two hands. The boy tapped the knife against his thigh.

“Come on!”

With trembling steps, Sheridan climbed up the tree roots, crawling across the slick bark with caterpillar speed. The boy jumped up after her, his sneakers grazing her boots with every step.

Nearing the end branches, the trunk began to thin, and with a slip of her palm, Sheridan’s chin slammed into the tree. She yelped as she straddled it, clinging like a terrified kitten. The boy looked back, then prodded her with his bare foot.

“Go!”

“No, I’ll die!”

He knelt carefully, loosening her legs and pushing her rear.

“No. You. Won’t.”

He peeled her off the trunk, releasing her in a final heave. She toppled onto the grass beyond. His shiny blade passed her head, landing on the dirt. She glanced for a second at its dark wooden handle, “Tim” etched expertly into the finish. The boy snatched it before pulling Sheridan to her feet.

“Back up, come on.”

“Tim?”

“What?”

“That’s you?”

“Yeah, so?”

Sheridan stood, wobbling to the side a bit. She rubbed her chin, a dark red streak appearing on the back of her hand.

“I’m bleeding!”

“You’ll be okay.” He aimed the blade at her once more.

Sheridan whimpered and put her hands behind her back. Prisoner and wild boy crossed the field beyond the tree-bridge, up to their hips in overgrown lawn. An old barn sat abandoned a hundred yards away, a sunken ship upon the sea of grass. Once at the large wooden doors, Tim ordered Sheridan to kneel, which she did, and opened the latch holding the building shut. Musty hay smell greeted their arrival.

Inside, a cat bathed itself on a dirty pillow placed between colorful bottles, running its brown paw over caramel ears, the day’s lunch now a bony carcass on the floor. The cat stopped as they entered, training its dark blue eyes on the pair.

“Cookie!”

Cookie stood up and dropped to the floor, knocking a few of the bottles over. He padded across the dusty floor while Tim rushed over to the fallen glass, forgetting Sheridan. “My collection!”

Sheridan swept Cookie up in a bear hug. “Oh Cookie I missed you so much!” She planted a wet kiss atop the cat’s head.

“That’s not his name.”

Sheridan paused. “What?”

“His name isn’t ‘Cookie.’ It’s Patch.”

“No, it’s Cookie.”

“Where’s his collar then?”

Sheridan felt along Cookie’s neck, searching for the blue leather and safety bell, but found only neck fluff. Cookie mewled and wiggled out of her grip, delicately navigating the shards of glass. The light creeping in reflected off the pieces, sending sepia spots around the barn wall. Sheridan hung her head, eyeing the open door.

Tim stood after gathering his glass in a neat pile on the ground. He headed back to Sheridan and started shoving her towards a ladder in the back corner.

“You’re staying here.”

Sheridan’s boots dug into the ground, slowing her advance. “No.”

“You can’t leave. Just stay up there, please.”

“I want to go home!”

“Don’t yell!” Tim pressed the flat of the knife to her side, forcing her onto the ladder.

Sheridan gazed to the hayloft above, spider webs crisscrossing the rungs, hinting at their hosts waiting in the corners. On the third rung, a wolf spider stalked invisible prey before disappearing. A sliver of evening sun penetrated the dark roof through the loft entrance, illuminating the dust population above, emphasizing the darkness of the space. Her joints locked. All of Tim’s pushing couldn’t force her up. His blade trembled against her.

“Go!”

Bleary-eyed, Sheridan sucked in a breath and wailed. It echoed off the walls, vibrated the hanging dust, and stretched out to fill the barn’s interior. Tim jumped back and covered his ears, nicking his lobe.

“Stop it, stop!”

He lunged for her but she turned, kicking him square in his gut. She drew another breath and continued the barrage of noise. Cookie dove off the pillow and made a beeline for Sheridan’s legs. He leapt onto Sheridan’s back and slid his claws out to hold on, which only made her scream louder. She thrashed about, trying to shake the cat off, and when she did he went flying into Tim’s face.

He flung Cookie off him, sending the cat skittering away, and threw his knife down in a fit of frustration.

Sheridan stopped and stared as he began to cry, his mouth turning into a pout.

“Fine, leave, I don’t care!”

He stomped toward the broken glass and kicked it, the edges scraping up his skin. He sniffled.

Sheridan put her hands on her hips and crinkled her eyebrows. “I’m telling my—”

“No!” Tim whipped around and held out his hands, pleading. “Please! Please don’t tell!” His voice broke between breaths. “I don’t want them to take me away again. Every time I go have fun, and I get in trouble for leaving the house, and Nancy gets mad and sends me to a new house with new parents and no friends.” Now, he started to sob. “I don’t want new parents, I want the old ones!”

Tim curled up and sobbed into the floor for a good while before calming down. The sky outside had turned blood red, illuminating the world with the day’s final glow, reaching through the slats of the barn, warming Sheridan’s boots. Cookie strode up to the poor boy and rested his furry chin on his back, purring. Except for the cat’s soothing purr and the thumping heart in her ears, silence reigned around them.

Sheridan knelt next to Cookie, who gazed at her with his ocean eyes. She spoke, her voice hoarse. “Listen up, Patch. This is Tim, and he’s going to be your new friend. He needs lots of help, because Nancy is mean and he doesn’t have any friends, so that’s going to be your job. You watch him, okay?”

Patch blinked. So it was settled.

Sheridan rose and headed out the door, back across the grassy sea, over the bridge, through the woods, and back to her home, where her mother scolded her for being out so late. She could barely stay awake in school the next day, and as soon as she got home, she headed towards the woods, back to the barn. With a heave she opened the door to no Tim, no Patch. The shards from the day before still lay piled on the ground, a small object placed on top. Sheridan inched closer to see a leather blue collar with a silver bell, ‘Cookie’ inscribed on the dangling nametag. In front of the pile, written in the dirt, was a message: “Thank you.”

They would make good company.

Grace Beatty is a senior at Capital Area School for the Arts Charter School.

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