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Our Charter
She kind of smiled into her fingers at that remark, cupping her chin and looking at the people flecked in dark gold and silver thronging and filing around her. We were sitting in a restaurant. She folded her legs under that black slip which she saved for just such an occasion, I could tell, because it wasn’t quite the right size, like pants you would wear going to do yardwork for an afternoon. Her freckled shoulders were on display. Her hands were freckled too, and one of them was swilling a wine glass at the bowl and exposing the pink flesh of her flush-cut fingernails. She was looking at the people, smiling in a sad sort of way, how you might at a favorite memory which had not fully subsided.
I pinched her above the elbow. “You wanna go?” I said.
She turned to me like someone had switched a light in her bedroom.
“Yeah.”
She lingered on it. Then she sat up and smoothed the dress around her legs. “That’s a good idea.”
We were outside. There were only a few headlights in the streets. She was ahead of me, carrying her purse like a briefcase. We moved like big kids going to take a bow after a stage show; she kept a swift pace.
Then—she must have thought of me—she asked, “Do you, like… hate your parents as much as I do? At least one of them, come on,” she said with sort of a girlish, confiding smirk. She brushed her hair out of her face and looked down at her steps again. “I’ll let you guess which one I’m talking about.”
For some reason, I noticed the vigor of her movement in the car lights, all the parts working under the slip in the balmy night air. “That can be a hard thing,” I said. “I like to play a game where I imagine what helpful things I’ve gotten from them and what I’m trying to give away… You know? We ask a lot . My father had three children by the time he was our age.”
She gave a quiet affirmation and kept on. There was a foot or so between us. I was caught up by the sound of her heels clicking the sidewalk. “I bet she has her father’s legs,” I thought, “if he wore heels.”
Every few weeks we met for coffee. It was starting to get cold out and she liked to wear big sweaters, and I teased her that she could pass for a bag of wool. Sometimes she would already be there when I arrived. Another few weeks went by. We were on our phones and talking about what bands we liked.
“I used to be in one myself,” I confessed. “It was called ‘Postmodern Effigy’. We mostly improvised,” I said, laughing.
“That’s cool,” she said. She retrieved a picture from her phone and added, “I went to see Bright Eyes in San Fransisco last summer. My sister lives over there. They’re kind of her favorite band, too.” She cupped her chin and seemed to look past the people moving around the café. “The Bay area is such a blast. I’d really love to go back there, soon.”
Then, we didn’t see each other for a long time. I was support staff in a middle school, and one day I was assigned to her class. Rene Thompkins. Her room was new, and sparse, as white as a walk-in clinic, except for a few posters extolling historical figures—Cesar Chavez, Frederic Douglas, Katherine Johnson. She gave a lot of talks about mutual respect. The room itself was oversized for its population—maybe eight kids, and part of it went totally unused.
I remember she was trying to get the class to make a charter, to vote on the class environment. Then a big eighth grade girl came in late. She had a pink skull backpack and was loud enough for an amphitheater.
“Oh, god!” she roared. “Please don’t tell me I’ve got to stay in this weird ass class.”
Rene answered in a deep voice that the class wasn’t weird to her. But whatever spell she had with the kids had been broken. At the end of the class that day, the loud girl spotted me with the swiftness of an owl coming down on a mouse scurrying through pine needles. “Are you two dating?”
“Well, no,” I answered, trying to be clever. “We just happen to be in the same room.”
I pinched her above the elbow. “You wanna go?” I said.
She turned to me like someone had switched a light in her bedroom.
“Yeah.”
She lingered on it. Then she sat up and smoothed the dress around her legs. “That’s a good idea.”
We were outside. There were only a few headlights in the streets. She was ahead of me, carrying her purse like a briefcase. We moved like big kids going to take a bow after a stage show; she kept a swift pace.
Then—she must have thought of me—she asked, “Do you, like… hate your parents as much as I do? At least one of them, come on,” she said with sort of a girlish, confiding smirk. She brushed her hair out of her face and looked down at her steps again. “I’ll let you guess which one I’m talking about.”
For some reason, I noticed the vigor of her movement in the car lights, all the parts working under the slip in the balmy night air. “That can be a hard thing,” I said. “I like to play a game where I imagine what helpful things I’ve gotten from them and what I’m trying to give away… You know? We ask a lot . My father had three children by the time he was our age.”
She gave a quiet affirmation and kept on. There was a foot or so between us. I was caught up by the sound of her heels clicking the sidewalk. “I bet she has her father’s legs,” I thought, “if he wore heels.”
Every few weeks we met for coffee. It was starting to get cold out and she liked to wear big sweaters, and I teased her that she could pass for a bag of wool. Sometimes she would already be there when I arrived. Another few weeks went by. We were on our phones and talking about what bands we liked.
“I used to be in one myself,” I confessed. “It was called ‘Postmodern Effigy’. We mostly improvised,” I said, laughing.
“That’s cool,” she said. She retrieved a picture from her phone and added, “I went to see Bright Eyes in San Fransisco last summer. My sister lives over there. They’re kind of her favorite band, too.” She cupped her chin and seemed to look past the people moving around the café. “The Bay area is such a blast. I’d really love to go back there, soon.”
Then, we didn’t see each other for a long time. I was support staff in a middle school, and one day I was assigned to her class. Rene Thompkins. Her room was new, and sparse, as white as a walk-in clinic, except for a few posters extolling historical figures—Cesar Chavez, Frederic Douglas, Katherine Johnson. She gave a lot of talks about mutual respect. The room itself was oversized for its population—maybe eight kids, and part of it went totally unused.
I remember she was trying to get the class to make a charter, to vote on the class environment. Then a big eighth grade girl came in late. She had a pink skull backpack and was loud enough for an amphitheater.
“Oh, god!” she roared. “Please don’t tell me I’ve got to stay in this weird ass class.”
Rene answered in a deep voice that the class wasn’t weird to her. But whatever spell she had with the kids had been broken. At the end of the class that day, the loud girl spotted me with the swiftness of an owl coming down on a mouse scurrying through pine needles. “Are you two dating?”
“Well, no,” I answered, trying to be clever. “We just happen to be in the same room.”
Pics
As much as I like the characters and the interaction, I'm afraid this went somewhat over my head.
Why does the first paragraph mention her looking at the people twice? I was looking for evidence it was an intentional repetition, but I don't see any. I do like the way it ties to another instance of her doing the same later on, but I wish there had been a scene break, because the narration of skipping ahead in time wasn't very smooth and initially confused me whether it was reminiscing.
Wouldn't this student have chosen this class? The description makes it seem to be an elective (having to point out that specific girl is an 8th grader, implying the class is a mix of ages; the small number of students; the oddity of having the kids vote on a charter), but then I don't get why she's caught off guard for what it comprises. I also have no clue why she would think they were dating. The narrator's just describing the room, not any sort of attention he's paying to the woman, so it's left feeling like the student is asking randomly instead of having figured something out. I don't get the final line, either. I mean, I understand it, but it's presented as if it's a joke. If it is, I don't get the joke.
The "trying to be clever" bit is what makes it seem to be a joke, but since I don't get it, I also don't see what's clever about it. That'll mean it's very YMMV: without that, I wouldn't be looking for a joke, and maybe that does prod some readers into seeing and getting it. OTOH, if you have to point out that something's a joke, then it's usually not told well.
So that leads me to think it's not a joke and he's just being "clever" about his insight? Really, if he hadn't said he was being clever, it would have completely changed the tone of the story to me. The story feels to me like he wishes they were dating, and that statement taken without the qualifier would cap it with a wistful realization they're never going to.
I equally missed what the diversion about the parents meant. In a longer story, you can afford to have little diversions like that, but in flash fiction, everything's so focused and will stick in the reader's mind well enough that it'll all be seen as important, yet it doesn't lead anywhere.
And watch your spelling of Frederick Douglass.
Why does the first paragraph mention her looking at the people twice? I was looking for evidence it was an intentional repetition, but I don't see any. I do like the way it ties to another instance of her doing the same later on, but I wish there had been a scene break, because the narration of skipping ahead in time wasn't very smooth and initially confused me whether it was reminiscing.
Wouldn't this student have chosen this class? The description makes it seem to be an elective (having to point out that specific girl is an 8th grader, implying the class is a mix of ages; the small number of students; the oddity of having the kids vote on a charter), but then I don't get why she's caught off guard for what it comprises. I also have no clue why she would think they were dating. The narrator's just describing the room, not any sort of attention he's paying to the woman, so it's left feeling like the student is asking randomly instead of having figured something out. I don't get the final line, either. I mean, I understand it, but it's presented as if it's a joke. If it is, I don't get the joke.
The "trying to be clever" bit is what makes it seem to be a joke, but since I don't get it, I also don't see what's clever about it. That'll mean it's very YMMV: without that, I wouldn't be looking for a joke, and maybe that does prod some readers into seeing and getting it. OTOH, if you have to point out that something's a joke, then it's usually not told well.
So that leads me to think it's not a joke and he's just being "clever" about his insight? Really, if he hadn't said he was being clever, it would have completely changed the tone of the story to me. The story feels to me like he wishes they were dating, and that statement taken without the qualifier would cap it with a wistful realization they're never going to.
I equally missed what the diversion about the parents meant. In a longer story, you can afford to have little diversions like that, but in flash fiction, everything's so focused and will stick in the reader's mind well enough that it'll all be seen as important, yet it doesn't lead anywhere.
And watch your spelling of Frederick Douglass.
>>Pascoite
My bad.
The idea of this story was "falling out of love". I wanted to work backward from the resolution of a drama to its underlying tensions and hence, in practice, to be in a situation of having a solution and looking for problems.
The blueprint for this was:
1) We meet the woman, as a character;
2) We see the "parts" of the woman, in motion;
3) We meet the woman, as a personality;
4) We meet "Rene Thompkins".
The "clever" line was to show the man's arrogance, or his distance from the world of feeling he had shared with the woman at the beginning. But perhaps this isn't clear without the scheme of the story firmly established.
My bad.
The idea of this story was "falling out of love". I wanted to work backward from the resolution of a drama to its underlying tensions and hence, in practice, to be in a situation of having a solution and looking for problems.
The blueprint for this was:
1) We meet the woman, as a character;
2) We see the "parts" of the woman, in motion;
3) We meet the woman, as a personality;
4) We meet "Rene Thompkins".
The "clever" line was to show the man's arrogance, or his distance from the world of feeling he had shared with the woman at the beginning. But perhaps this isn't clear without the scheme of the story firmly established.