The CriterionArdsley High SchoolVolume xxivv

By Gabe Biolos

Staff List:Advisors: Mrs. Moleski Mrs. O’Brien

Editors: Ilana Goldstein Caitlin Smith

Designer: Taylor Margolies

Staff: Nimrat Kohli Nicole Rich Kathryn Richards Lauren Sanfilippo Contributors: Evan Aaron, Anonymous, Gabe Biolos, Christina Bordioni, Kristin Bova, Celia Castellano, Natalie Cheung, Caitlyn Chu, Kaitlyn Cramer, Hallie Cronin, Kaya Das, Mary Gold-stein, Hayley Hoffman, Sami Hutchin-son, TJ Lyons, Mrs. Tiffany Moleski, K.c. Montgomery, Matthew Evan Moody, Julian Oks, Priyanka Patel, Stephanie Reda, Maddy Rich, Cara Ro-sado, Sam Rusoff, Shaw Schiappacasse, Lexi Simon, Caitlin Smith, Nick Tong, Louis Waxman, Jayde Xu, Leon Yu, Emily ZhuSpecial thanks to Dr. Haubner, Ms. Kiesler and Mrs. Rosen, and the en-tire English department for all of their support this year and every year. We would also like to thank our school’s chapter of the National Art Honors So-ciety and The Panther Voice newspaper for their willingness to collaborate with us.

Hello readers!

It doesn’t feel like June; the weather can’t decide whether it wants to return to the early days of April or jump ahead to the middle of July. In a way, this indecisiveness has saved us from the tendency of heat strokes from the stuffiness of the English wing--a new record for the club! But the occasional sunshine reminds us that summer is at our fingertips.

Although at times the school was a like pressure cooker ready to pop, this school year has been a lovely one. School isn’t just about completing the curricula on the syllabi but about learning the skills that cannot be taught in a class-room or by a textbook. Like any other year, we experienced a few obstacles which hindered our development of the magazine. But did we let those obstacles really block our way? No. As vectors of creativity we don’t let challenges hit us right between the eyes. Instead we take our instruments, our paints, and our pens to transform those UGH-worthy moments into protective shields of art, music, and writing. Even though we did not face adversity and conflict, we have observed that all great work stems from such factors. The Criterion and the pieces featured in it are our shields, dis-plays of our strength and thought.

We would like to thank the lovely ladies who helped us this year. Thank you to Kathryn, Lauren, Nicole, Nimrat, and Taylor for giving this club extra spunk and for mak-ing meetings laughing sessions. Thank you to our advisors, Mrs. Moleski and Ms. O’Brien, for your guidance and sup-port this year. Thank you to everyone at AHS who supports this great club and has done everything to help us.

And to our readers: thanks for opening our cover and enjoy the following pages.

~Ilana Goldstein and Caitlin Smith Editors-in-Chief

Works of Writing6 am by Shaw Schiappacasse……………………….......2K.c. Montgomery………………………………………6Our Culture of Conformity by Julian Oks……………...7Nick Tong……………………………………………....8Anonymous Submitter…………………………………9Our Existence by Leon Yu……………………………...10Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by Tiffany Moleski........11The Talk by Christina Bordoni………………………...14The Ninja by Cara Rosado……………………………..15The Angel on The Ground by Matthew Evan Moody......16-17Outside the Box by Caitlin Smith.……………………..18

Works of Art:The Front and Back Cover by Caitlyn ChuThe Inside Cover by Gabe BiolosJayde Xu……………………………….1, 19The Flower by Jenna Montag……..…….3Emily Zhu.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4Natalie Cheung..........................................5Celia Castellano…………………….......6Photobooth by Helen Garcia…………...7Fire and Ice by Sami Hutchinson……...8Nicole Mattos………………………….9Lexi Simon...............................................12Maddy Rich.............................................13Kaya Das……………………………...15Caitlyn Chu…………………………..18Photography Pieces:

Hayley Hoffman……………………………...1Priyanka Patel………………………………..10Hallie Cronin………………………………...11Center Stage by TJ Lyons………………….....14Kaitlyn Cramer………………………………15Evan Aaron…………………………………..16-17, 20Louis Waxman………………………………..20Sam Rusoff…………………………………....20Stephanie Reda……………………………….21Kristen Bova………………………………….21Mary Goldstein………………………………21TJ Lyons……………………………………...21Riya Dave…………………………………….21

Table of Contents

By Hayley Hoffman

By Jayde Xu

1

Shaw Schiappacasse 6 A.M. Walter Henry Young stood, his hand squeezing the glossy black handle of the gas pump, filling up the tank of his dull green Corolla with the kind of absentminded apathy most often as-sociated with overcast Sunday mornings. He wore black leather shoes that hadn’t had a shine in them since his father had worn them in 1973 and argyle socks that had been out of style for even longer. His shirt was buttoned improperly such that his collar rose higher on the left side, but not quite high enough to obscure the shiny purple bruise covering his left eye. His glasses hung from his shirt pocket, lenses cracked, and he squinted in the early morning light, the punched side of his face throbbing and puffy. Terrance was right-handed and wore a rather large ring that doubled as a bottle-opener. Walter wondered whether Terrance still would have been as aggres-sive if he had made use of the ring less often. He wondered if the party would have gone differ-ently if he hadn’t acted so friendly with Alice, if he hadn’t tried alcohol for the first time in his life and, with his newfound liquid courage, confessed to the girl of his dreams in front of her equally drunk boyfriend. Walter rubbed the aching side of his face and sighed. Probably. He glanced at the screen on the side of the pump and watched the price rise steadily. $24.57…$25.79…$27.10…$28.35…$29.12…$29.56…$29.94…$30.04. “Every fucking time” Walter muttered, screwing the gas cap back on with a grimace. His face stung but the most of his pain came from the pit of his stomach, a deep, nervous, uncom-fortable pain commonly associated with forgetting assignments or watching car crashes. Alice didn’t love him. Hell, she didn’t even like him. She had laughed like everyone else when he said how he really felt about her. She had cheered like everyone else when big manly boyfriend came to her “rescue”. She had booed him out of the party like everyone else. Walter sat inside the car and looked up at the felt-covered ceiling. He knew what would happen next. She would come into school on Monday crying about the latest problem in her relationship and would apologize for her actions over the weekend, blaming the alcohol she seemed to have limitless amounts of, and promise him up and down that it would never happen again. She would look up at him with big green eyes wet with tears and ask him for his help, knowing that it was never really a ques-tion. And, like every time in the past, she would expect him to go along with it, assuring her everything would be okay and listening to her vent about Terrance until the process just repeated itself. Walter turned the key and the Corolla spluttered into life. The radio turned on and Antho-ny Kiedis’s voice told Walter to give it away, give it away, give it away now. Walter smiled. Alice had never liked the Red Hot Chili Peppers; she always complained that she couldn’t dance to their music. Walter’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Speak of the devil. Enclosed in the little green bubble on his message screen was “We need to talk I need your help call me please love Alice”. Walter stared at it, not so much offended and not at all surprised. The phone in Walter’s hand started ringing, the ringtone overlapping unpleasantly with John Frusciante’s guitar solo. Wal-ter looked down at the name on the screen and then up into his rearview mirror at his bruised, purple eye. He could just barely see the outline of a thick ring high up on his cheekbone The first song finished and “Can’t Stop” came on. Walter’s Corolla stayed idling in the empty gas station. Outside, a few birds started to chirp. The neon lights of the gas station had switched off in the face of the rising sun. Walter Henry Young’s finger hovered over the ignore button, then clicked it.

2

By Jenna Montag

3

ByEmily Zhu

4

ByNatalie Cheung

5

K.c. Montgomery

Pick your chin upFor yourself more than anybody.Everyone goes through massive changes;Some good,Some bad.It’s okay,You don’t need to constantly be strong.But when you’re walkingWith your chin downJust pick it up.Easier said than doneBut trust me,The road is easier whenYou focus on the distant road aheadThan focusing on the obstaclesDirectly in front of your feet.

By Celia Castellano

6

“Photobooth” By Helena Garcia

Our Culture of Conformity

Walking to second period gym skimming

through unseen text messages,

simultaneously breaking through people

talking with each other on my way.

I hate to see people talking in groups,

huddling around each other forming

circles of obliviousness; listening to

whomever speaks the loudest; to whomever

is narcissistic enough to believe their ideas

are worthy of audibility; to

whomever is willing to speak so

fearlessly in exchange for a moment

of attention and acceptance; although

their feelings of acceptance may be

transitory, the imprinting of their ideas

remains in the heads of their foolish

listeners who are too afraid to seek a

thought that contradicts those of the

pronounced.

~ Julian Oks

7

Pain radiates out of me like toxic fumes, poisoning the ones I love and causing endless doom.I scream and shout for the world to stop, waiting for the day that I pick up the pieces of my shattered self.I need an intervention.A miracle.A song.A soothing escape to travel far away to a place where to forget is to be free, and freedom is my priority.

By Nick Tong

“Fire and Ice” By Sami Hutchinson

8

They define and outlinebut if you look close enoughthey give you a chanceto pull them apart and looknot at the lines, but at the words that are deep inside:Scared, broken, and defeated.

From an Anonymous Submitter

By Nicole Mattos

9

By Priyanka Patel

Our Existence.

We existed for nothing.

No one will ever say that

We succeeded.

We knew that

We failed.

We didn’t think that

We could do anything.

We always believed that

We had hope.

That wasn’t true.

We were hopeless.

But there were some people who believed that

We still stood a chance.

~Leon Yu

*This poem can be read forwards and backwards

10

OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER

On Fridays my mother cleans

all day; scrubbing the floors,

Disinfecting the bathroom

with such urgency as if

while cleansing the sink, tub, toilet,

and tiles she is cleansing herself.

Washing away the past,

To forget what her uncle did

to her when she sat on his lap,

And to forget what her father

did to her mother as she lay

next to them in bed.

One of ten children. Fighting

to be noticed, fighting to feel

some pure affection.

I thought she didn’t love me.

I never knew she just didn’t know how.

I think about this when I pick lint off the rug

And hairs out of my brush.

~Tiffany Moleski

ByHallie Cronin

11

ByLexi Simon

12

ByMaddy Rich

13

“The Talk” By Christina Bordoni I knew it was coming. In fact, it was just a matter of time before my parents sat me down and delivered the infamous line, “We need to talk.” I kept my cool, my façade up like an invisible barrier only I could see. I distanced myself, went to another place as they began their pitiful spiel. Dad was moving out. I could visit him anytime I wanted; we’d go out to dinners once a week, and so on. Meanwhile, mom would have to get another job to support the house. Now she’d be home by seven at the earliest and I’d have to tuck Peter into bed by myself.I wasn’t really listening, of course. I was spacing out, and, because my parents knew me oh-so-well, they said my name a few times before I re-entered reality. “Annabelle, Annabelle, Anna-” “Yes, yes, I’m here.” I said groggily, as if I had woken up from a midday nap with a sour taste in my mouth which never feels right. This didn’t feel right either. “Please listen, Annabelle. Your father and I agreed, and we’ve decided to let your grandmother move into the house, to help ease some tension.” I blinked once, twice, three times. What? Mom hadn’t spoken to Grandma Emma in easily six years. Whenever I questioned her about it, she’d always dismiss the subject quickly and mumble an insult under her breath when she thought I was out of earshot. I wasn’t. Still, I didn’t say a word, but made sure to keep blinking, so they’d know I wasn’t off in my own mind. “Are you okay with this? Annabelle? Annabelle?” My mom was growing exasperated by my silence, so I finally spoke. What came out of my mouth, though, I did not realize until it was too late to take back the words. “Yea, yea, mom sure I’m okay with this. Is that what you want me to say? Smile, pretend I’m happy just to make this whole thing easier? Well it’s not! It won’t be easy, not one bit. Even if I pretended I didn’t care, that I was fine, it would just cause more problems in the long run. I’m not okay, I’m not. I’m not okay with any of it. Why would I be okay with the fact that my parents are splitting up? And what about Peter? He’s only five! How am I, or you, going to explain to him that the only image of love he’s ever known is gone? So to answer your question, no, I’m not okay. I wish you and dad got along better. I wish I was a better daughter. I wish we could be a family again.” And for a moment, just a moment, a glimmer of understanding flickered in their eyes and I knew it was going to be okay.

By TJ Lyons

14

THE NINJAby Cara Rosado He has no name,No status,No features. He appears out of nowhere,Hardly ever seen,Face covered in black. Nobody knows whyBut he hides himself,As he mustn't let anybody knowWho he really is. The ninja saunters aroundIn the night,In the light of day,In the very blinksOf the morning sun. Years later,His clothes have become tattersAnd little by little,The ninja's profileBecomes visible. Who is the ninja?Why he simplyWasn't ever a ninja at all.

ByKaya Das

ByKaitlyn Cramer

15

The Angel On The Ground

She saw the golden gates before her now through two

opaque veils - never to be lifted again. She soared

ever higher above the ground that chained her to a

life of debilitating pain, a life of constant suffering,

a life of perpetual fear, a life of suffocating doubt…

a life of sorrowful death that made the sky above

her seem so heavenly, as if it was her only escape

from the hell that tormented her every day. In the

burning red fires that surrounded her relentlessly, she

still shined through in pure, clear white, radiating

“Live, Love, Laugh.”

The shell of her body would remain on this Earth

while her mind swam with the dolphins in the oceans

before her, or galloped with the stallions in the sweeping

fields around her, or soared with the doves in the sky above.

Her aura would brighten the darkest room, and

replace

any hatred and sorrow with nothing but love,

nothing but love.

16

My mother was an Angel on the ground… the only

difference now being that she truly has the wings to soar

above the shell that imprisoned her peaceful, free soul.

I was her life, and now her legacy, her words,

her voice…and still her loving son,

her loving son.

I am my words, my voice, and my future,

I am her words, her voice, and her future,

I am her legacy.

- Matthew E. Moody

By

Evan Aaron

17

Outside the Box

Their scarves, their shoes.Their blue, their blood.Their pants, their passion.Their shirts, their soul.Their rings, their race.Their life as a group.Originality fades,Uniqueness burns.Discoveries extinct.Time Scapades.Lives rise.Adventures absent.It’s the same CDInstrumental or synthesized,Choir or soul,Rock band or concert band.Not different,But a different take.Enlist in the original classes,Attend confidence lectures,And get a PhD in Yourself..I can hear the herders calling,I can hear the mobs rising,I can see the box closing.Hurry,Or you’ll be left outside the box.

~Caitlin Smith

ByCaitlyn Chu

18

ByJayde Xu

19

Travel

By

Louis Waxman

By

Evan Aaron

By

Sam Rusoff

20

Section

By Mary Goldstein

By

Stephanie Reda

By

TJ Lyons

By

Kristten BovaBy

Riya Dave

21