“Revolution is a / big word,” writes Sarah Feng. The title of this poem translates in English to “Today, I can speak,” and it seems almost unimaginable that the speaker in this situation would be able to engage with language in any way except through poetry — how better to cry out against oppression? And how to speak in any way except through poetry when the body has been slated for execution? Here there is purity and relentless conviction, a rich embrace of the still-sensual world of “heat-bruised passionfruit,” even as the sky breaks over a voice soon to be silenced. — Sophie Klahr





Thousands of students march through the capital [Beijing] to Tiananmen Square in April 1989, calling for a more democratic government. In the weeks that follow, thousands of people join the students to protest against China’s Communist rules. After several weeks of demonstrations,
Chinese troops entered Tiananmen Square on June 4 and fired on civilians. It has been estimated that as many as 10,000 people were arrested during and after the protests.

Several dozen people have been executed for their parts in the demonstrations.


(call me a nationalist, or
call me an inmate.)

mother, do you know:
at seven intersections,
lights blink green.
a flood swarms around
the metal ark.
sky splitting open,
seven pairs of lips
glow a pulpy red.
our motherland made up
of plumes of screeching smog.

(mother, i no longer taste salt
when i speak.)

i wonder if noise
could marble skin.
thrashing, i stream
down legs and
through breasts,
lay myself bare
on tiled domes of tiananmen, curl up
in heat-bruised passionfruit
splitting by the butcher.
revolution is a
big word & so is

the wind shreds the portrait
of old Mao into confetti.
i strip myself bare
& dance in the ribbons.

mother, i am writing to you from my prison cell.
tomorrow, at eight, my execution.

we drink the catharsis with our hands.
i am gulping down the air
until my mouth bleeds like our flag.

[1] Today, I can finally talk again.

[2] I love my country.




Sarah Feng is 14 and a sophomore at Pinewood School. A National Poetry Quarterly Best of Issue scholarship recipient, she is the author of 2 self-published novels and a 2017 Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship poetry mentee. Her work has been recognized by the regional Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, the Willamette Writers, and the California Coastal Commission, among others, and has been published/is forthcoming in the Storm Cellar Quarterly, the Rising Phoenix Review, and the Los Angeles Times Insider. She interns at the Blueshift Journal and reads prose for the Glass Kite Anthology.

Honorable mentions: Anisha Bellamy (Miami Arts Charter, Miami, FL); Cleo Engle (Charlottesville High School, Charlottesville, VA); Taylor Fang (Logan High School, Logan, UT); Eli Frievalt (Miami Arts Charter, Miami, FL); Kanchan Naik (The Quarry Lane School, Dublin, CA); Megan O’Donnell (Mt. Blue High School, Farmington, ME); Ilana Sabban (Miami Arts Charter, Miami, FL)

TEEN SEQUINS 2017, Day 1: “Sensitivity ” by Bella Komisarjevsky, AGE 13

Bella Komisarjevsky’s poem begins and ends with the same line, which echoes in a multitude of ways. At once self-deprecating, gloating, and knowing, Komisarjevsky’s “Sensitivity” is stronger for it, and more complex. “Honey drips from my mouth/and leaves a taste on everyone’s/tongue except yours(,)” but this poem has stuck in my mind since the first read. Komisarjevsky’s voice is one to follow. — Robby Auld


I must be so tiring.
Our tears mix in
a rain gutter kind of way
and each time I am reminded
that you and I are indescribably
different and how you’ll
never be so invested in me
as I am, you.
Honey drips from my mouth
and leaves a taste on everyone’s

tongue except yours
and now I’ve never wanted
you to like honey more.
I must be so tiring.

Bella Komisarjevsky is a published writer in 7th grade at Miami Arts Charter. She writes for fun and for school, and it is something she’s planning to pursue in the future.

Honorable mentions: Zora Brobbey (Ghana International School, Accra); Briana Gonzalez (Miami Arts Charter, Miami, FL); Bella Koschalk (Herbert Hoover Middle School, Potomac, MD); Jenny Wu (Lawson Middle School, Cupertino, CA)


A mouth full of honey, the voice of a prisoner; fish and fortune; foxtails and ghost mothers; marred light and boyhood—theses are glimpses of the outstanding poems we’re delighted to present in this year’s Teen Sequins feature.

2017 marks the third year of our celebration designed to honor teenage poets, and as usual, we could not be more grateful for the opportunity to read submissions from each and every inventive and brave young writer who has decided to trust us with their work. By presenting the work of teen writers with the platform of an internationally distributed print journal like Gigantic Sequins, we are singing from the rooftops that no matter your age or your experience, the literary world is yours.

This year, 126 teenage writers made our job very hard, which, as we’ve said in years past, is what every literary editor hopes for—to receive so much excellent work that it is difficult to choose just a few poems to present to the public. Our 2017 featured poets are Bella Komisarjevsky (13), Sarah Feng (14), Emily Tian (15), Jacqueline He (16), Sabine Holzman (17), Lucie Richter-Mahr (18), and Juniper Cruz (19). Each of these writers embrace and utilize language in a way that is uniquely compelling, thoughtful, and memorable. Engaging nature, mystery, identity, family and mythology, these poems truly shine. We hope that you will enjoy this week-long feature, as each day we present a new writer flinging open the windows of their imagination.

Happy reading, and happy writing.


Signing off, with gratitude,

Sophie Klahr and Robby Auld

Teen Sequins co-editors

**Teen Nostalgia** (a playlist for Teen Sequins 2017)


A few weeks ago, I started spamming the Gigantic Sequins masthead on Facebook with a question: what were your favorite songs when you were a teenager? I had the idea during last year’s Teen Sequins feature, to make a mixtape, maybe a playlist, of songs we love(d), that inspire(d) us. This year I asked, and the masthead delivered (link to Spotify playlist). I might have skipped class this morning to listen, but that can be our secret.


Here’s what the staff wrote about their picks (links to videos!)…

  1. “Nightswimming” by R.E.M. (Sophie Klahr, Teen Sequins co-editor): “I remember listening to this song on a tape, on repeat, probably around 8th grade.”
  2. “Circles” by Soul Coughing (Kimberly Ann Southwick, Editor in Chief): “released in 1998…these guys were KEY in my late teens; like, I LIVED off of Doughty lyrics all through my late high school & early college years. The link is to the official video for that song. I remember my best friend Kirsten and I walking around the halls at my high school after school was over singing this song.”
  3. “Awake” by Letters to Cleo (Kimberly Ann Southwick): “came out in 1995 but I got really into them like sophomore year of high school. (Regrettably I don’t think I ever saw them live? Living in South Jersey, I got to see a LOT of live music, most of my faves, because we’re so close to both Philly & NYC–& bands even played in Jersey on the way between the two cities or in big arena stadiums right outside of them. Anyway, sucks I never saw them.) I would write LTC lyrics all over everything (which I did with a lot of music) and use them as AIM away messages and such.”
  4. “#1 Crush” by Garbage (Meg Willing, Assistant Production Editor): “from the Romeo + Juliet Soundtrack (1996), 13. On tape, from my Walkman, track one, side one, staring up at bootlegged R+J posters (and postcards and cutouts), lovesick and cursing it.”
  5. “Barnacles” by Ugly Cassanova (Meg Willing): “from a mix CD from Travis, 17. Driving dirt roads in my maroon ’93 Subaru Loyale station wagon, aimless.”
  6. “Rocks Tonic Juice Magic” by Saves the Day (Zach Yontz, Fiction Editor): “from Through Being Cool (1999). I was 13 but probably really got into it around 15-16 (to this day!). You and I are like when fire and the ocean floor collide.”
  7. “A Red So Deep” by Cursive (Zach Yontz): “Was 14! Probably really got into it around 15-16 again. A concept album about divorce really fit my high school age mindset. I was also listening to a lot of Thursday at the time.”
  8. “Gold Lion” by Yeah Yeah Yeahs (yours truly): “10 when this album came out…I preordered it from FYE next to Panera in the plaza where my mom grocery shopped. Must have talked her into giving me an advance on multiple allowances. It came with a poster.”
  9. “Nude as the News” by Cat Power (“”): “Wrote one long and awful draft of a YA book inspired by this song. Listened over and over while writing thousands of words, just anything. I refuse to open the document, but I still love this song.”
  10. “Rid of Me” by PJ Harvey (“”): “Bought this album at FYE, too. Brought it home and put my ear to a faux-vintage CD player from Target. A neighbor my mom babysat was there, too. We turned the stereo loud then louder. When the drums came in, the speakers nearly blew. I was exhilarated, my neighbor terrified. This song is what most of the poems I wrote my sophomore year of college wanted to be.”
  11. “El Niagara en Bicicleta” by Juan Luis Gerra (Meg Willing): “16. Living in Bogotá, sneaking around the city with my best girls, dancing, dancing, dancing.”


My brilliant Teen Sequins co-editor, Sophie Klahr, ended up making her own playlist. Thank you, Sophie. Nostalgia forever. Teen Sequins forever! “Untouchable Face” is one of my favorite Ani Difranco songs.

Friends, please help us spread the word about Teen Sequins 2017! And maybe turn up the music.

Until next time,
Robby (Teen Sequins co-editor)

Blog post to a young poet, rejected from a program, who,for a day, wants to quit writing

Dear ________,

I was in graduate school the first time that I heard the term PoBiz, a clipped, half-cynical half-shruggingly sarcastic way of referring to the Poetry Business, which I had also never heard of. I gathered that the Poetry Business entailed marketing one’s self. Are you a female poet? A poet of color? A poet with a disability? With a disease? A queer poet? A religious minority poet? An eco-poet? Etcetera.…I had always written about the things that I felt made me different, the things that stung, because I was alone, lonely with those weights. I wrote about abortion not because I thought I was going to tap into some niche market, but because it weighed heavily on my heart. I wrote about alcoholism because it was the center of my life, not because I was a Bukowski devotee (though there’s nothing wrong with that). I wrote about god and faith not because I had an academic interest in religion and spirituality but because it felt at many points that my life depended on whether or not I was able to tap into a power greater than myself. I never really had any idea about marketing myself. It was true that I wrote mostly about what was hard in my life, but I also wrote about traveling and fish and movies.

Carl Phillips wrote a great essay awhile ago in which talked about being asked why he doesn’t say what color the people in his poems are.  And here is what I’m trying to say, in a roundabout way: The System, any program, any school, any magazine, is going to somewhat judge you through what makes the actual you unique and not wholly on the quality of your writing. It’s a double-edged sword, and a fluid one. Sometimes it can feel as if the system rewards the person, not the poem.

Here is what I’m trying to say: of course the rejection feels personal. It is personal. Some folks got into the program, and you didn’t. You said that you thought you shouldn’t take it personally, but you have every right to take it personally. We pour our hearts into something, toss the thing out into the world, and watch as nobody puts out their arms to catch our beloved pieces. We watch the gears of the PoBiz grinding along, rewarding writers who maybe we think our work is equal to or better than. We think both Why me?! and Why not me!?

But — the poem is also an artifact. It’s something that has been done, a past action. It’s a product of a different moment, a past self. I love the Buddhist saying of “Do your work, then step back.” It’s very simple, but I have thought about it for many years. Some days I am better at stepping back than other days.

If you feel like quitting writing sometimes, that’s ok. The place where a poem comes from is the place where the urge to paint comes from, the place where the urge to swim comes from. It’s something that wants to move. So, let yourself move around. Make a collage, sing a song, pick up an instrument you’ve never played before. Learn to bake bread. But don’t stop embracing the muscular impulse of your creativity. If writing feels daunting, that’s ok. But make something else. Even if it’s just a dance in your bedroom. And, go outside for awhile, without your phone. That helps. It usually helps everything.

I think the real thing to quit is the search for validation, which is insidious. I have to remind myself sometimes of the same thing. When sending out a poem, the thought should not be: I hope that XYZ publication takes this poem so that everyone knows my poem is good enough to be in XYZ publication… it should be: I hope that XYZ publication takes this poem because i really think it is beautiful / strange / insightful / cathartic / funny / etc. and I want to share it with people – I think it might be important for someone. Writing poetry is about the urge to share something, even just with yourself. It’s not about gold stars. There’s no endgame to poetry, as the PoBiz might have you believe. A bio full of laurels and fellowships means almost nothing. Right before my book came out, and I had to choose what my bio in the book would say, I decided that it would be very short. It lists where I was born, and where I live now, two journals where my poems have been published, and the fact that I do interdisciplinary work. What’s most important to me in my bio is the latter, the fact of interdisciplinary work, because I hope, someday, that a visual artist or dancer or painter will write to me and say they’d like to collaborate. It’s almost like a little Personals posting, an ISO. I chose to leave out my education and prizes and residencies not because I don’t value them, but because — that’s not really what I want to talk to people about.

So, don’t worry about being rejected from the residency. Let it be a Not this time instead of a No, never. If you keep writing, and I get the sense that you will always write, there will be dozens of opportunities you might reach for and dozens of times you may be rejected. You get to decide how, and how long, to hold each disappointment. You get to decide what to expect of your writing. Don’t worry about being too much of one thing, or not enough of another. Don’t worry if you don’t publish anything for awhile, or for a long while.There is no right path for a poet, and there millions, literally millions, of incredible poets and writers and literary journals you and I have never heard of. And what a joy! What an absolute joy, to know there are so many more writers we will meet, who will mean so much to us, and to know that the writers we are today might be vastly different than the writers we are in 10 years, in 20 years…There’s no finish line. In the end, there is only the work itself. Enjoy the moment of your work, and how it feels to read your poems aloud, and how those poems can nourish you. Let the rest fall away. Onwards.

( Teen Sequins Co-Editor )


Drumroll please: here’s our submission call for TEEN SEQUINS 2017! 

We’re excited to announce that our annual feature is now not ONLY open to 14-19 year old writers, but to 13 year old writers as well ! We want to make sure that all the varieties of shining teen voices can and will be heard.

If you’re not already familiar with Teen Sequins, check out our story. We can’t wait to see what this year holds in store. Take a moment to read the featured poems from previous years, and join us however you can – whether you’re a student, a teacher, a parent, a pal, or all of the above, share this submission call with the teens in your life! Download our flyer and fling it from the rooftops!

TS.flyer 2017.jpg


Got questions? Email us at teensequins@gmail.com !



Welcome to day six of Teen Sequins 2016! Today’s poem is “Scene from a Western” by Brad Trumpfheller.


“Landscape is character,” wrote Henry James, and perhaps nowhere is this remark more visibly true than in the traditional genre of Western films, where landscape saturates and governs every character’s action. In Brad Trumpfheller’s “Scene from a Western,” a family is fused with the mythical Western landscape. In this poem an absent father’s palms are plains, his eyes “like the rolling yucca trees,” and the land itself gives a ragged cough “which the wind would then fashion / into the shape of my mother.”  A newborn foal drags itself down the steps of a family home, no—Trumpfheller, the actor, the director, the author, draws a newborn foal down the steps of a family home, “..and this is how / the audience knows my father….” This a poem of clear pulse, astute attention, and wide horizons, swallowing a rider in the sunset. -Sophie Klahr




Below the canopy of day, a foal

drags itself down the stairs


of my childhood home, threadbare

mane slick with blood. & this is how


the audience knows my father

is never home for any of my birthdays.


I will only see him when the night swallows

the sun or something needs


to be fixed. & after my mother came home

from the hospital, the storm


door had come off one of its hinges. O God –

his hands like flat & empty plains, his eyes


like the rolling yucca trees. Now do you see

how the sandstorm crawled its way across


the desert? A dead landscape mustering up

some slow seize, some cough of dirt & bone


which the wind would then fashion

into the shape of my mother: bed-ridden


for days, thighs reddened

into clay. But there is something honest


about the sand. How it shocked the windows

with rattling. How the house was buried


& unburied while my mother’s pillows etched

epitaphs into themselves.


Before the audience leaves the theater,

or before my father can disappear


again – the scene ends with the foal, collapsed

in the desert, its body curled into the shape

of an empty crib.  


Brad Trumpfheller is a student at Emerson College, studying literature & musicology. He was raised in the south, but spent time all over the United States. His writing has appeared in / will appear in the Nashville Review, Lambda Literary, Red Paint Hill, and elsewhere. He reads poetry for Winter Tangerine and handles business development for The Adroit Journal. In his free time, he writes about music.


Honorable mentions: Ariella Carmell (University of Chicago, Chicago, IL), Deepali Gupta (DY Patil University, Navi Mumbai, Maharashtra, India), Samantha McLaughlin (Denison University, Granville, OH), Eloise Sims (University of Auckland, Auckland, New Zealand), Em Sutliff (Ohio Wesleyan University, Delaware, OH), Oriana Tang (Yale University, Livingston, NJ), Eli Winter (University of Chicago, Chicago, IL)


Welcome to day five of Teen Sequins 2016! Today’s poem is “& soil” by Talia Flores.


The opening ampersand of “& soil” signals right away to the reader that this will be an intimate poem, a particular coiled fertility. Thalia Flores’ poem is serpentine and rich with mystic undergrowth, a poem to be whispered. With short lines flayed by slashes, Flores’ hand visibly crafts a directive for the reader: where a sharp inhalation is required. In “& soil,” where “blood / seeps tulips,” plant life not only inhabits but is knit into the essence of a human body. Flores’ surreal poem is a fecund field of reversals, busy with the music of new life. — Sophie Klahr


& soil


in the bulb of a wet cheek /
a plant sprouts. illuminated
prism / in the spit of caves.
here grows / the heart of a
flower, / a black hole or /
reverse birth. / out of cracked
blood / seeps tulips
freshened stems / caught in
vermilion; / a skin bark and
muscled green. / she combs
her hair to turn it into moss. /
her legs / are those fallen logs
inverted, earthy sestinas /
bark muscled green.


Talia Flores is from Eden Prairie, Minnesota, and graduated from Eden Prairie High School in 2016. She is the recipient of the 2015 Texas Book Festival Fiction Prize and has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Her work appears or is forthcoming in National Poetry Quarterly, Words Dance, Souvenir Lit Journal, Glass Kite Anthology, and more. She was a mentee in The Adroit Journal’s Mentorship Program, and she works as a reader for Polyphony H.S. and as an editorial intern for The Blueshift Journal. She will be attending Stanford University in the fall.

Honorable mentions: Mernine Ameris (George Mason University, Fairfax, VA), Lia Bernhard (Lewis & Clark College, Portland, OR), Lauren Gay (Jefferson Community College, Watertown, NY), Emmi Mack (Northside College Prep High School, Chicago, IL (graduate)/ (incoming) Columbia University, New York City, NY), Caroline Tsai (Canterbury High School, Ft.Wayne, IN (graduate)/(incoming) Harvard University, Cambridge, MA)


Welcome to day four of Teen Sequins 2016! Today’s poem is “Straw Theory” by Margaret Zhang.

Margaret Zhang’s poem is a series of tricks, “a trick of the eye”, “a trick of the brain”, leading to a turn no less surprising for its simultaneous shock and familiarity. Spoken in a voice both distanced from the experience and swept up in memory, “me the magic trick over and over” casts a spell on the reader as Ruby cast on the speaker, as the speaker cast on themselves, enamored, innocent. “How two could be coiled/so tightly and suddenly/have nothing.” Zooming out and back in (from “two” to “we”), Zhang’s specificity and proximity are where the poem makes impact, and proves her theory. -Robby Auld



Ruby first taught me to untangle
stirrers of showy coffee shops
by tangling them: to perforate the paper coats
with our teeth until the holes pooled together, crumpled
off like trousers, then to interlace them in fingers until
they were no longer wound. She showed
me the magic trick over and over
until I memorized how she laid the straws
across each other like crucifixion, wound
the stem of the cross over the arm, choked the neck
with the right limb, bent the structure like a bird
opening its wings towards
each other. It was a trick of the eye:
snap snap, knot gone before we could see
it. Watching her twist straws like watching
god devise glow
from thunderclap. Any latch, when bolted
too tightly, too cautiously, she taught me, spun
the other way without notice. How two could be coiled
so tightly and suddenly
have nothing. That night we pretended
we were straws and locked
so firmly we receded from each other’s
arms. It was a trick of the brain:
snap snap, knot gone before
I could see it.


Margaret Zhang is a senior at Castilleja School (Palo Alto, CA), where she appreciates memes and serves as the Editor-in-Chief/Co-Founder of Glass Kite Anthology. She has attended writing workshops at the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio and the Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop, among others. Read her other work in Words Dance, Cadaverine, the Foyle Young Poets Anthology, YARN, and other journals.

Honorable mentions: Shira Abramovich (Newton South High School, Newton, MA (graduate) / (incoming) Brown University, Providence, RI), Hetty Bai (University of Missouri, Kansas City, MO), Ashley Cheak (Stivers School for the Arts, Dayton, OH), Steven Chung (Monta Vista High School, Cupertino, CA), Anabelle Crowe (homeschooler, Asheville, NC), Sophie Evans (Lusher Charter School, New Orleans, LA), Gus Gonzalez (Albert Einstein High School, Silver Spring, MD), Hannah Graf (Middleton, MA), Alex Greenberg (Ethical Culture Fieldston School, New York, NY), Allison Huang (The Lawrenceville School, Princeton, NJ), Ziqi Lei (The Pennington School, Pennington, NJ), Annalise Lozier (Interlochen Arts Academy, Interlochen, MI), Erin Jin Mei O’Malley (York, PA), Keith Prescott (Falmouth High School, Falmouth, ME), Jean Rivera (Greenburgh Graham, Hastings-On-Hudson, NY), Nicole Seah (United World College of South East Asia, Singapore), Elizabeth Seri (Harvard-Westlake School, Los Angeles, CA), Emily Yin (Boxborough Regional High School, Acton, MA), Lisa Zou (University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, PA)


Welcome to day three of Teen Sequins 2016! Today’s poem is “Barium” by Ben Read.


In Ben Read’s “Barium,” the good-bad joke is about death, and laughter is followed by crocus-lined graves in “necklaces of purple and blue” and by a grave turn, as the speaker notes that “Barium is the element / that doctors feed you to see your organs.” Read’s syntax ties the pieces of the narrative together, the poem emerging with each recurring image, Read forming his own necklace. “It is spring. I imagine the flowers / taste like morning, and I remember”–the poem emerging from this remembering too, because what else can be done with the past? Write it down or bury it. — Robby Auld 




In chemistry class, we told bad jokes and laughed.
What do you do with dead elements? You barium.
The crocuses in the front yard line the graves—
necklaces of purple and blue. Barium is the element
that doctors feed you to see your organs. Swallow,
and show them your body. For discovery.
It is spring. I imagine the flowers
taste like morning, and I remember
the morning I learned the murmur of a creek,
how it sounds like secrets. You were there; you told me
about vulnerability. I looked at you. I am always thinking
about childhood. The world where we met
looks so small now, built from bricks and windows
that won’t close. I am thinking
of the time we went to the playground,
sat on the blue swings, staring at the seesaw
in silence. We already knew. We were children.
Barium is highly reactive; it doesn’t want to be alone.
It is spring, and I sit on the porch, watching
the birds in the trees. I chart their paths
from branch to branch to telephone
wire. They are drawing. It looks like a skeleton,
a face, a body, maybe. Like a barium x-ray.
Who can tell what I used to see before the illusion
disappeared? What I thought I had? What do you do
with old memories? Barium is heavy in your stomach,
in the earth. The crocuses come again every year.
Sometimes I step on them, and sometimes
I stop to pick them, hold them in my palm,
and smell them. I am thinking how easy it is
to forget. How I have to think to remember the sky,
the time we climbed a mountain, running
each switchback, breathless, and each time,
we had to rest. At the top, we looked out
and thought the whole world was ours, and everything
looked enormous, because we were there.


Ben Read lives in Spokane, Washington, where he is a junior at Lewis and Clark High School. His work has been recognized by RiverLit, Eunoia Review, and The Adroit Journal, and he was named a 2015 Foyle Young Poet of the Year by the Poetry Society of the United Kingdom. He recently co-founded Ponderosa Literary Journal at his high school. Other than writing, he likes to participate in speech and debate, attend and read at local poetry slams in coffee and burrito shops, and listen to music like the Juno soundtrack. His favorite muse is the river.
Honorable mentions: Margot Armbruster (WI), Ella Boyd (Falmouth High School, Falmouth, ME), Emilee Burridge (BASIS Phoenix, Phoenix, AZ), Paul Elaire (Northside High School, Lafayette, LA), Farah Ghafoor (Vincent Massey Secondary School, Windsor, Ontario, Canada), Katie Howell (Bishop Guertin High School, Nashua, NH), Christina Im (Sunset High School, Portland, OR), Elizabeth Johnson (Fike High School, Wilson, NC), Alonna Kilpatrick (Chattanooga High School Center for Creative Arts, Chattanooga, TN), Sarah Licht (West Boca High School, Boca Raton, FL), Grace Marion (Neshaminy High School, Langhorne, PA), Megan McEvoy, Matteo Moretti (Newark Academy, Livingston, NJ), Abigail Walker (Milton Academy, Milton, MA), Topaz Winters (Singapore American School, Singapore), Alisha Yi (Ed W. Clark High School, Las Vegas, NV)