This is a Young Adult novel that has taken (and continues to take) every free moment of my time. It's been great. Here are a few facts for those of you not familiar with the genre.
Age of reader: 12 - 18 (although adults enjoy YA books too)
Length of book: 100 - 225 pages
Characteristics: Characters face extreme adult problems and cross the threshold into adulthood. Left with hope for the future.
I have most of this novel written, and will post subsequent chapters.
There are graphic scenes of self-injury.
Prologue
I lived in a sock. Not a warm, soft, fuzzy sock but one of those heavy ones that bunch up and make your shoes feel tight. I could see well enough through the weave, but it was a skewered view, like watching tiny square TVs, all with different shows on.
I didn’t realize that I lived in a sock for a long time, until the Gray Man told me. For all of those years, I only knew the constriction, the sense that something wasn't right. The Gray Man tried to tell me, that time he hovered around me like thick fog, but I thought he was trying to trick me; because for so long, I had lived day to day straining against the weave, until it carved into my soul. By then I had a sickness in me that was slowly smothering me to death, and I didn’t even know it.
I didn’t realize that I lived in a sock for a long time, until the Gray Man told me. For all of those years, I only knew the constriction, the sense that something wasn't right. The Gray Man tried to tell me, that time he hovered around me like thick fog, but I thought he was trying to trick me; because for so long, I had lived day to day straining against the weave, until it carved into my soul. By then I had a sickness in me that was slowly smothering me to death, and I didn’t even know it.
Chapter 1 | Present - The Black Box
I first heard about Ms Byrd from my brother Bryan three years before I actually had her as my teacher. We were at the dinner table, Bryan, Grammy and me, talking about the first day of sixth grade, and I had just finished telling them about how everybody seemed to have broken out during the summer, except me; and how my best friend Jess was in four of my classes, and since we changed teachers every period, that was really lucky.
“That redheaded boy is in four of your classes?” Grammy asked dubiously.
“Yeah, isn’t that great?”
“I didn’t think he was smart enough to be on your level.”
“He’s smart, it’s just that…”
“…he can’t finish a sentence without saying ‘dude’. Bryan explained. “What’s up with that?” he asked turning to me. “How come your boyfriend doesn’t know how to speak English?”
“Shut up! He’s not my boyfriend!”
“Can we please have a civil meal, just this once,” Grammy said in her particular tone. “All right, Mr. Genius, why don’t you tell us about your day?” Bryan smirked at me before speaking.
“Sure Grammy. Let me see. Math was boring, that’s Algebra the math I‘ll never use; and Spanish 2 was …como se dice, boring too. Biology isn’t going to be as interesting as I expected, it’s not sex ed…”
“Bryan…” Grammy warned.
“Okay,” he said grinning. “Oh! English, you’ve got to get a look at my English teacher. She’s like this pageant queen from Alabama or something, huge hair and a truckload of makeup. It’s like being around a giant Barbie doll.” He formed the figure of an hourglass in the air. “Stacked. Anyway she stood in front of the classroom and waited until we were all sitting in our seats like 3rd graders before she said a single thing. Then she starts telling us all about this pageant she’d been in, like 10 years ago and that it was the definition of her life…”
“Defining moment in her life?”
“Yeah that was it. And how it made her want to be a English queen and spread world peace, some crap like that. You wait,” he said wisely, pointing his fork at me, “you’ll get her in the 9th grade and it’ll be exactly the same - ‘cause she’s made of some heavy duty plastic.”
Bryan had gotten most of his facts mixed up except for one thing; Ms Byrd was indeed well preserved. Not that she was old exactly, but she was a little stale, like a creampuff that’s been sitting in the bakery window too long.
She stood in front of the class with her arm raised until we were quietly seated at our desks like a bunch of…well, 3rd graders.
“Class, Ah am so pleased to have y‘all in English composition. It’s going to be the most wonderfully satisfying year of essay writing evah. But first Ah must tell you about the most fulfilling experience of mah life…”
Pearl Creek on the Coast Community College otherwise known as PC on the CCC, was listed as one of the most prestigious 2 year schools in the Elite Junior Colleges For Aspiring Young Women manual. This was mainly due to the century old Miss Hospitality pageant, which had historically propelled talented young women into successful careers as governesses, typists and hostesses, in only the most premier establishments, of course.
“As Ah was accepting my crown, Ah was suddenly overtaken by emotion. Ah cannot fully describe the feeling of empowerment Ah felt the moment that beautiful crown touched my brow. Ah knew right then, that Ah must nevah forget my pledge to promote world peace by taking the English language to the furthest corners of the undeveloped world. That was the defining moment of mah life, Class, the moment Ah decided to teach English!”
Anne Clare - who because of some unfortunate twist of fate was a ‘Watson’ while I was a ‘Watts’, placing her in the seat in front of me for our entire school experience - sighed deeply, no doubt wishing we had a pageant of some sort at Armstrong High School. That forlorn sigh is what inspired me to ask my first question, the one that set the seriously warped tone for the rest of the school year.
“Um, Ms Byrd, if your pledge was to teach English to ignorant natives, why are you teaching at Armstrong? Unless you think we’re…” I smiled as the snickers spread throughout the room. She was not pleased; it turned out she didn’t have much of a sense of humor. I lost the staring contest that followed, there was something really creepy about the fake eyelashes settled above her eyes like mutant whiskers.
“Ah thought Ah would begin by teaching proper English to children closer to home. Ah feel as though my pledge is being fully honored by my dedication to the classroom.” She raised her eyebrows in question. “Anything else, Miss…Miss…?”
“Watts. Mikaela Watts.”
“Thank you Miss Watts, Ah’m sure Ah‘ll nevah forget your name.” She stepped back to her desk, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and reexamined my initial impression of the trite beauty queen. It seemed that Ms Byrd had a sharp beak.
“Mikaela Watts!” Geez, she could screech. “Kindly join this class!” I had been totally zoned out, watching the monstrous black clouds gather over the school parking lot, when I was shocked back into English Comp by Ms Byrd’s high pitched squeal. I pulled out my notebook without too much attitude; it wasn’t like I was looking for trouble. In the months that had followed our first encounter, Ms Byrd and I had come to a certain understanding - I wouldn’t ask any questions and she wouldn’t send me to detention. It hadn’t always work out that way, since I’d already been to detention three times that year. But it’s not like it mattered at home either; as long as dinner was on the table when Grammy slumped in from work, she didn’t care.
Ms Byrd rose from her desk in a one fluid, very ladylike motion and glided to the center of the room. She held in her hands a small book of prompts entitled, A Writer’s Laxative: We Help You Go, which she carried everywhere with her; presumably it would go to the furthest reaches of the globe too - along with her hairspray. This was the source of the bi-weekly inspirational prompts that were supposed to jumpstart our imaginations. Her long pointed fingernails tapped lightly on the bright red cover. She had a very pleased expression on her face, her lips parted to expose perfect teeth.
“It’s that time again, Y’all! Pencils at the ready, here Ah go!” Setting the book on the nearest desk, she let it fall open. Simpering in anticipation, she peered at the page and read the sentence to herself, then with wide eyes scanning the room, picked a student to read it to the rest of us. She followed the same ritual twice a week; and after several months of it, it was even more stale than her. I yawned.
“Anne Clare, would you do us the honor of reading today’s prompt out loud?” Anne Clare rose from her seat, throwing a complacent look at me over her shoulder. I felt a surge of revulsion and watched with narrowed eyes as Anne Clare sashayed up the aisle to stand beside Ms Byrd. I felt the need to log a formal complaint.
“Anne Clare read it the last two times, Ms Byrd,” I called out. It wasn’t that I really cared who read the dumb prompt; except for Anne Clare that is - it was a matter of principle. Ms Byrd turned quickly in my direction, not a single hair on her head moving. She fixed a cold stare on me before speaking very slowly.
“Ah don’t believe anything will get hurt if Anne Clare speaks in front of the class twice in a row.” She turned to Anne Clare, speaking like a normal person again. “Please read us the inspiring prompt-of-the-day, in your lovely voice.”
“Yes, Ma‘am,” Anne Clare said practically curtsying in obeisance. “The prompt of the day is: A crow tells a farmer to grow organic corn.”
I barked out a laugh before I could stop it, sounding pretty much like a hysterical seal. A traitorous smile remained on my lips as I clamped my mouth shut. Anne Clare shot a contemptuous look in my direction and primly sat down at Ms Byrd’s small wave. Ms Byrd turned her eyes on me.
“Was there something you wanted to say about today’s prompt Miss Watts, or are you simply overjoyed with the subject matter?” She stood like one of the five finalists expectantly awaiting the judges’ decision. The temperature in the room plunged.
“Please enlighten us.”
She shouldn’t have asked. Or rather she shouldn’t have asked in that condescending tone as though I was somewhere at the bottom of the food chain with the rest of the parasites. She shouldn’t have asked because Anne Clare had read the prompt more than anyone else. So I really did have a point to make.
“Well, there’s something I don’t understand,” I said in an almost totally sincere tone. “Why does the farmer hear the crow talk English? And why is the crow asking for organic food? I mean, is the point that the farmer is having hallucinations or that crows have special nutritional needs?”
Ms Byrd stood motionless at the front of the class, almost like a publicity photo - Miss Hospitality hut-hopping across the globe promoting World Peace! Her eyes never left my face, staring at me in that way that made me feel like there were spiders crawling up my legs. I looked away. I always looked away; unblinking eyes are total weirdness.
“Miss Watts, since you are perhaps the most creative student Ah have evah had the privilege of teaching, Ah humbly ask that you write a composition on a less than worthy prompt, sharing with us your unique talents. Present your paper by the end of this class period. Or if you’d rather - you can receive a zero for this quarter.”
Okay, one point for you. I didn’t bother looking up, I knew I would just end up saying something else, something worse; so instead I reached for my pen and held it tightly in my hand, and after a few seconds I heard Ms Byrd walk back to her desk. I wrote down a few lines:
Crows and Organic Farming
Corn farmers tend to experience hallucinations brought on by pesticides. Natural farming would reduce this problem and crows would be healthier too.
Not too bad I thought, and I still had 30 minutes to finish. I was concentrating on the next sentence, when I heard Ms Byrd speak.
“Class, do light bulbs come in zero Watts?”
I kept my eyes on my paper as the other kids laughed. I didn’t even look up as Anne Clare giggled, flicking her hair on my desk. From under hooded eyes, I could see the tail end of her long pony tail fall on the white paper in front of me like a black claw; I suppressed an urge to yank on it, pinning her head to the desk with my Bic.
The laughter faded and Ms Byrd continued with the lesson. Anger crawled it’s way up my belly, leaving a burning a path to my throat. I took deep breaths to calm myself, and only succeeded in feeding the red embers behind my eyes. My mood, which had been volatile all day, began to match the sky outside with it’s swirly blacks and grays. I neatly flipped to a clean looseleaf page, and began to write in earnest.
Why I Hate Byrds (I mean) Crows
I know a crow intimately.
Ms Crow doesn’t have any morals. She is vain and selfish. She looks at her reflection in little puddles and constantly combs her feathers. She worships jewelry and hoards it so that no one else can enjoy it’s beauty. She will steal the corn right out of your fields.
Ms Crow disturbs the peace with her raucous screams. She thinks that if she says things at the top of her voice, others will listen. But the farmer never pays attention to Ms Crow because she never says anything intelligent. Why should the farmer listen to stupid squawks?
Ms Crow is monochromatic and therefore tries to impose her beliefs on others. When she found out that wood peckers are not monochromatic, she pushed a baby pecker out of it’s nest. She watched as it hit the ground.
I learned not to look at Ms Crow. She thinks that eyes are the best baubles and tries to get them. There is minimal risk though, because Ms Crow is a coward and doesn’t want to fight. She prefers for me to be dead because then it would be easy for her to steal my eyes.
As long as I am alive, I am safe.
Of course it pissed her off. That was the whole point of it, wasn’t it?
I got kicked out of class a split second after I finished reading my composition out loud. It was that good. Ms Byrd called the front office on the intercom, (like an RSVP without an invitation), so they were expecting me. She didn’t bother with an escort; I didn't have a reason to skip out, I only wanted to annoy, not get expelled.
So I went peacefully, although I accidentally hit Anne Clare on the head with my backpack as I was walking by. I kept my poise, gliding down the aisle as though she was just a tiny stumble on the way to accept my crown. I almost missed the door since I looking back and waving graciously to the rest of the class. My walk was inspiring.
Once outside of the room however, I deflated immediately. It seemed as though I had just enough bravado to get in trouble, but not a whole lot for the aftermath. Gazing down the long empty hallway, I suddenly knew that I couldn’t face the vice principal. Not at that very moment. I had to do something else first.
The compulsion grew with every passing second and at the first juncture of halls, I purposely made a sharp left turn when I should have gone straight. I was heading towards the Black Box, a small auditorium in the northeast corner of the school, rarely used during the day. It would be dark and empty now. I would find the privacy that I needed there.
The room is painted flat black, the cinder block walls showing dozens of little white spots where the paint didn’t reach. The small stage is black also, although I can see streaks of wood where the paint has rubbed off.
I’m uncomfortable, like I have just fallen under water and the air is just about to run out. But I won’t be here long; just a few minutes and I’ll be done; then I’ll head over to the office.
I reach into the tiny pouch in my jeans pocket - the one where nothing fits - and take out the razor. I had wrapped a tissue around the sharpened edge so I wouldn’t cut myself. I let out an involuntary giggle, so I wouldn’t cut myself…Jesus, I kill me. Then I really laugh. It takes a few minutes before I stop. I must look insane. Which sets me off again. I try to catch my breath, and wait until my hands stop shaking and pull up my sleeve.
I keep the blade clean, don’t want an infection, and nearly start to laugh again. It’s not that I find cutting funny, but it is kinda, you know?
My arm is freckled, a lot more than my face, so it covers up the scars. To a point. Not that I have a lot of them, I only do this when I feel the unbearable suffocation. When it feels like even a small breath is impossible, and there’s nothing to grab on to even though I reach and reach and reach out.
I can feel my heart pounding, it always does that just before the cut, and then when I see the fatty yellow line filling up with blood, I always think the same thing - why do I have so much fat in my skinny arm - and I can breath again.
This is where I feel better. This is when I can put my head back and close my eyes and feel my lungs fill; I can’t even feel the pain in my arm. Not yet. But this time, when I was just getting ready for the next cut, the next big oxygen rich breath that means that I had grabbed onto something solid and I can stop reaching, that’s when I notice the Gray Man staring at me. I hadn’t even heard the door open.
“Don’t cut anymore.” He stands on the other side of the room like a boulder with a head, thick and hard. His hair is silver and short, in a military cut. He takes a step towards me.
I cut again, a second line beside the first, both now filling red and dribbling onto my pants leg. It doesn’t feel good this time; he interrupted me, I can’t fill my lungs completely with air, and it’s hard to think. He takes another step towards me.
“Stop there.” I manage to croak.
He stops. “Okay. I was looking for Ms Clark’s room. I musta made a wrong turn.” His eyes flick down to my arm, then back up to my face. “Why don’t you put the razor down?”
“When I’m done.”
“Right. Can we talk first? What’s your name?”
“Mike.”
“Mike?”
“Mikaela. Mike.” I explain automatically.
“Hi Mike, I’m Tom.” He takes two steps closer and sits on the edge of a chair. “Why are you cutting yourself?”
He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt with the letters PAL across the front. Police Athletic League. Incredible. I not only get caught, I get caught by the police.
“You’re a cop?”
“Yeah, I work homicide. But I’m not working right now. I just came to talk with my kid’s teacher.” He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. So he’s my friend now.
“What’s going on Mike?”
I stare at him. I can’t do anything else at this moment except sit there with a razor in my hand. I can feel everything now; the burn in my arm, my leg getting cold where the blood wet my pants, my fingers cramping around the razor blade. Mostly, I feel my heart jumping a thousand times a second. I can’t find any words to say; I have no words at all.
“Things kinda rough, Mike?” His forehead wrinkles as he looks at me. “Sometimes things get to be too much. It helps to talk with someone. Maybe even someone like me.” He smiles a little. “Is your arm getting tired? Why don’t you put the razor down Mike?”
Didn’t he say that to me already? I blink and lower my arm. But I’m still holding the blade.
“What grade are you in Mike?” Why does he keep saying my name? “Do you have a boyfriend?”
He’s got to be kidding. My words come back.
“You think a guy’s my biggest problem?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
“Biggest problem I have is being in the same room with you.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“You’re a cop, I have a blade in my hand. You’re obviously on some sort of police business.”
“You’re not in trouble Mike. I just want to talk.”
“And snatch the razor from my hand and send me to the loony house. I don’t need your help.”
He nods his head like he‘s thinking about what I just said. “Why do you think this,” he waves his fingers at the razor in my hand, “is going to solve anything?”
“You don’t know what my problems are,” I hiss at him. “So you walk in on me while I’m doing something private, that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to know anything about me. It doesn’t give you permission.”
“So I’m asking you Mike. What’s on your mind? What’s making you do this?”
“Nobody is making me do this!”
He‘s quiet for a few seconds. Thinking.
“I didn’t say who, Mike. I said what.” He looks at me like my head is cracked open and he just has to reach in to get the answers. I can’t stand looking at his gray eyes, gray like his sweatshirt and hair, like a fog rolling in to smother me. So I look away. I always look away.
“So who‘s making you hurt so bad?” he asks me quietly.
“That redheaded boy is in four of your classes?” Grammy asked dubiously.
“Yeah, isn’t that great?”
“I didn’t think he was smart enough to be on your level.”
“He’s smart, it’s just that…”
“…he can’t finish a sentence without saying ‘dude’. Bryan explained. “What’s up with that?” he asked turning to me. “How come your boyfriend doesn’t know how to speak English?”
“Shut up! He’s not my boyfriend!”
“Can we please have a civil meal, just this once,” Grammy said in her particular tone. “All right, Mr. Genius, why don’t you tell us about your day?” Bryan smirked at me before speaking.
“Sure Grammy. Let me see. Math was boring, that’s Algebra the math I‘ll never use; and Spanish 2 was …como se dice, boring too. Biology isn’t going to be as interesting as I expected, it’s not sex ed…”
“Bryan…” Grammy warned.
“Okay,” he said grinning. “Oh! English, you’ve got to get a look at my English teacher. She’s like this pageant queen from Alabama or something, huge hair and a truckload of makeup. It’s like being around a giant Barbie doll.” He formed the figure of an hourglass in the air. “Stacked. Anyway she stood in front of the classroom and waited until we were all sitting in our seats like 3rd graders before she said a single thing. Then she starts telling us all about this pageant she’d been in, like 10 years ago and that it was the definition of her life…”
“Defining moment in her life?”
“Yeah that was it. And how it made her want to be a English queen and spread world peace, some crap like that. You wait,” he said wisely, pointing his fork at me, “you’ll get her in the 9th grade and it’ll be exactly the same - ‘cause she’s made of some heavy duty plastic.”
Bryan had gotten most of his facts mixed up except for one thing; Ms Byrd was indeed well preserved. Not that she was old exactly, but she was a little stale, like a creampuff that’s been sitting in the bakery window too long.
She stood in front of the class with her arm raised until we were quietly seated at our desks like a bunch of…well, 3rd graders.
“Class, Ah am so pleased to have y‘all in English composition. It’s going to be the most wonderfully satisfying year of essay writing evah. But first Ah must tell you about the most fulfilling experience of mah life…”
Pearl Creek on the Coast Community College otherwise known as PC on the CCC, was listed as one of the most prestigious 2 year schools in the Elite Junior Colleges For Aspiring Young Women manual. This was mainly due to the century old Miss Hospitality pageant, which had historically propelled talented young women into successful careers as governesses, typists and hostesses, in only the most premier establishments, of course.
“As Ah was accepting my crown, Ah was suddenly overtaken by emotion. Ah cannot fully describe the feeling of empowerment Ah felt the moment that beautiful crown touched my brow. Ah knew right then, that Ah must nevah forget my pledge to promote world peace by taking the English language to the furthest corners of the undeveloped world. That was the defining moment of mah life, Class, the moment Ah decided to teach English!”
Anne Clare - who because of some unfortunate twist of fate was a ‘Watson’ while I was a ‘Watts’, placing her in the seat in front of me for our entire school experience - sighed deeply, no doubt wishing we had a pageant of some sort at Armstrong High School. That forlorn sigh is what inspired me to ask my first question, the one that set the seriously warped tone for the rest of the school year.
“Um, Ms Byrd, if your pledge was to teach English to ignorant natives, why are you teaching at Armstrong? Unless you think we’re…” I smiled as the snickers spread throughout the room. She was not pleased; it turned out she didn’t have much of a sense of humor. I lost the staring contest that followed, there was something really creepy about the fake eyelashes settled above her eyes like mutant whiskers.
“Ah thought Ah would begin by teaching proper English to children closer to home. Ah feel as though my pledge is being fully honored by my dedication to the classroom.” She raised her eyebrows in question. “Anything else, Miss…Miss…?”
“Watts. Mikaela Watts.”
“Thank you Miss Watts, Ah’m sure Ah‘ll nevah forget your name.” She stepped back to her desk, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and reexamined my initial impression of the trite beauty queen. It seemed that Ms Byrd had a sharp beak.
“Mikaela Watts!” Geez, she could screech. “Kindly join this class!” I had been totally zoned out, watching the monstrous black clouds gather over the school parking lot, when I was shocked back into English Comp by Ms Byrd’s high pitched squeal. I pulled out my notebook without too much attitude; it wasn’t like I was looking for trouble. In the months that had followed our first encounter, Ms Byrd and I had come to a certain understanding - I wouldn’t ask any questions and she wouldn’t send me to detention. It hadn’t always work out that way, since I’d already been to detention three times that year. But it’s not like it mattered at home either; as long as dinner was on the table when Grammy slumped in from work, she didn’t care.
Ms Byrd rose from her desk in a one fluid, very ladylike motion and glided to the center of the room. She held in her hands a small book of prompts entitled, A Writer’s Laxative: We Help You Go, which she carried everywhere with her; presumably it would go to the furthest reaches of the globe too - along with her hairspray. This was the source of the bi-weekly inspirational prompts that were supposed to jumpstart our imaginations. Her long pointed fingernails tapped lightly on the bright red cover. She had a very pleased expression on her face, her lips parted to expose perfect teeth.
“It’s that time again, Y’all! Pencils at the ready, here Ah go!” Setting the book on the nearest desk, she let it fall open. Simpering in anticipation, she peered at the page and read the sentence to herself, then with wide eyes scanning the room, picked a student to read it to the rest of us. She followed the same ritual twice a week; and after several months of it, it was even more stale than her. I yawned.
“Anne Clare, would you do us the honor of reading today’s prompt out loud?” Anne Clare rose from her seat, throwing a complacent look at me over her shoulder. I felt a surge of revulsion and watched with narrowed eyes as Anne Clare sashayed up the aisle to stand beside Ms Byrd. I felt the need to log a formal complaint.
“Anne Clare read it the last two times, Ms Byrd,” I called out. It wasn’t that I really cared who read the dumb prompt; except for Anne Clare that is - it was a matter of principle. Ms Byrd turned quickly in my direction, not a single hair on her head moving. She fixed a cold stare on me before speaking very slowly.
“Ah don’t believe anything will get hurt if Anne Clare speaks in front of the class twice in a row.” She turned to Anne Clare, speaking like a normal person again. “Please read us the inspiring prompt-of-the-day, in your lovely voice.”
“Yes, Ma‘am,” Anne Clare said practically curtsying in obeisance. “The prompt of the day is: A crow tells a farmer to grow organic corn.”
I barked out a laugh before I could stop it, sounding pretty much like a hysterical seal. A traitorous smile remained on my lips as I clamped my mouth shut. Anne Clare shot a contemptuous look in my direction and primly sat down at Ms Byrd’s small wave. Ms Byrd turned her eyes on me.
“Was there something you wanted to say about today’s prompt Miss Watts, or are you simply overjoyed with the subject matter?” She stood like one of the five finalists expectantly awaiting the judges’ decision. The temperature in the room plunged.
“Please enlighten us.”
She shouldn’t have asked. Or rather she shouldn’t have asked in that condescending tone as though I was somewhere at the bottom of the food chain with the rest of the parasites. She shouldn’t have asked because Anne Clare had read the prompt more than anyone else. So I really did have a point to make.
“Well, there’s something I don’t understand,” I said in an almost totally sincere tone. “Why does the farmer hear the crow talk English? And why is the crow asking for organic food? I mean, is the point that the farmer is having hallucinations or that crows have special nutritional needs?”
Ms Byrd stood motionless at the front of the class, almost like a publicity photo - Miss Hospitality hut-hopping across the globe promoting World Peace! Her eyes never left my face, staring at me in that way that made me feel like there were spiders crawling up my legs. I looked away. I always looked away; unblinking eyes are total weirdness.
“Miss Watts, since you are perhaps the most creative student Ah have evah had the privilege of teaching, Ah humbly ask that you write a composition on a less than worthy prompt, sharing with us your unique talents. Present your paper by the end of this class period. Or if you’d rather - you can receive a zero for this quarter.”
Okay, one point for you. I didn’t bother looking up, I knew I would just end up saying something else, something worse; so instead I reached for my pen and held it tightly in my hand, and after a few seconds I heard Ms Byrd walk back to her desk. I wrote down a few lines:
Crows and Organic Farming
Corn farmers tend to experience hallucinations brought on by pesticides. Natural farming would reduce this problem and crows would be healthier too.
Not too bad I thought, and I still had 30 minutes to finish. I was concentrating on the next sentence, when I heard Ms Byrd speak.
“Class, do light bulbs come in zero Watts?”
I kept my eyes on my paper as the other kids laughed. I didn’t even look up as Anne Clare giggled, flicking her hair on my desk. From under hooded eyes, I could see the tail end of her long pony tail fall on the white paper in front of me like a black claw; I suppressed an urge to yank on it, pinning her head to the desk with my Bic.
The laughter faded and Ms Byrd continued with the lesson. Anger crawled it’s way up my belly, leaving a burning a path to my throat. I took deep breaths to calm myself, and only succeeded in feeding the red embers behind my eyes. My mood, which had been volatile all day, began to match the sky outside with it’s swirly blacks and grays. I neatly flipped to a clean looseleaf page, and began to write in earnest.
Why I Hate Byrds (I mean) Crows
I know a crow intimately.
Ms Crow doesn’t have any morals. She is vain and selfish. She looks at her reflection in little puddles and constantly combs her feathers. She worships jewelry and hoards it so that no one else can enjoy it’s beauty. She will steal the corn right out of your fields.
Ms Crow disturbs the peace with her raucous screams. She thinks that if she says things at the top of her voice, others will listen. But the farmer never pays attention to Ms Crow because she never says anything intelligent. Why should the farmer listen to stupid squawks?
Ms Crow is monochromatic and therefore tries to impose her beliefs on others. When she found out that wood peckers are not monochromatic, she pushed a baby pecker out of it’s nest. She watched as it hit the ground.
I learned not to look at Ms Crow. She thinks that eyes are the best baubles and tries to get them. There is minimal risk though, because Ms Crow is a coward and doesn’t want to fight. She prefers for me to be dead because then it would be easy for her to steal my eyes.
As long as I am alive, I am safe.
Of course it pissed her off. That was the whole point of it, wasn’t it?
I got kicked out of class a split second after I finished reading my composition out loud. It was that good. Ms Byrd called the front office on the intercom, (like an RSVP without an invitation), so they were expecting me. She didn’t bother with an escort; I didn't have a reason to skip out, I only wanted to annoy, not get expelled.
So I went peacefully, although I accidentally hit Anne Clare on the head with my backpack as I was walking by. I kept my poise, gliding down the aisle as though she was just a tiny stumble on the way to accept my crown. I almost missed the door since I looking back and waving graciously to the rest of the class. My walk was inspiring.
Once outside of the room however, I deflated immediately. It seemed as though I had just enough bravado to get in trouble, but not a whole lot for the aftermath. Gazing down the long empty hallway, I suddenly knew that I couldn’t face the vice principal. Not at that very moment. I had to do something else first.
The compulsion grew with every passing second and at the first juncture of halls, I purposely made a sharp left turn when I should have gone straight. I was heading towards the Black Box, a small auditorium in the northeast corner of the school, rarely used during the day. It would be dark and empty now. I would find the privacy that I needed there.
The room is painted flat black, the cinder block walls showing dozens of little white spots where the paint didn’t reach. The small stage is black also, although I can see streaks of wood where the paint has rubbed off.
I’m uncomfortable, like I have just fallen under water and the air is just about to run out. But I won’t be here long; just a few minutes and I’ll be done; then I’ll head over to the office.
I reach into the tiny pouch in my jeans pocket - the one where nothing fits - and take out the razor. I had wrapped a tissue around the sharpened edge so I wouldn’t cut myself. I let out an involuntary giggle, so I wouldn’t cut myself…Jesus, I kill me. Then I really laugh. It takes a few minutes before I stop. I must look insane. Which sets me off again. I try to catch my breath, and wait until my hands stop shaking and pull up my sleeve.
I keep the blade clean, don’t want an infection, and nearly start to laugh again. It’s not that I find cutting funny, but it is kinda, you know?
My arm is freckled, a lot more than my face, so it covers up the scars. To a point. Not that I have a lot of them, I only do this when I feel the unbearable suffocation. When it feels like even a small breath is impossible, and there’s nothing to grab on to even though I reach and reach and reach out.
I can feel my heart pounding, it always does that just before the cut, and then when I see the fatty yellow line filling up with blood, I always think the same thing - why do I have so much fat in my skinny arm - and I can breath again.
This is where I feel better. This is when I can put my head back and close my eyes and feel my lungs fill; I can’t even feel the pain in my arm. Not yet. But this time, when I was just getting ready for the next cut, the next big oxygen rich breath that means that I had grabbed onto something solid and I can stop reaching, that’s when I notice the Gray Man staring at me. I hadn’t even heard the door open.
“Don’t cut anymore.” He stands on the other side of the room like a boulder with a head, thick and hard. His hair is silver and short, in a military cut. He takes a step towards me.
I cut again, a second line beside the first, both now filling red and dribbling onto my pants leg. It doesn’t feel good this time; he interrupted me, I can’t fill my lungs completely with air, and it’s hard to think. He takes another step towards me.
“Stop there.” I manage to croak.
He stops. “Okay. I was looking for Ms Clark’s room. I musta made a wrong turn.” His eyes flick down to my arm, then back up to my face. “Why don’t you put the razor down?”
“When I’m done.”
“Right. Can we talk first? What’s your name?”
“Mike.”
“Mike?”
“Mikaela. Mike.” I explain automatically.
“Hi Mike, I’m Tom.” He takes two steps closer and sits on the edge of a chair. “Why are you cutting yourself?”
He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt with the letters PAL across the front. Police Athletic League. Incredible. I not only get caught, I get caught by the police.
“You’re a cop?”
“Yeah, I work homicide. But I’m not working right now. I just came to talk with my kid’s teacher.” He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. So he’s my friend now.
“What’s going on Mike?”
I stare at him. I can’t do anything else at this moment except sit there with a razor in my hand. I can feel everything now; the burn in my arm, my leg getting cold where the blood wet my pants, my fingers cramping around the razor blade. Mostly, I feel my heart jumping a thousand times a second. I can’t find any words to say; I have no words at all.
“Things kinda rough, Mike?” His forehead wrinkles as he looks at me. “Sometimes things get to be too much. It helps to talk with someone. Maybe even someone like me.” He smiles a little. “Is your arm getting tired? Why don’t you put the razor down Mike?”
Didn’t he say that to me already? I blink and lower my arm. But I’m still holding the blade.
“What grade are you in Mike?” Why does he keep saying my name? “Do you have a boyfriend?”
He’s got to be kidding. My words come back.
“You think a guy’s my biggest problem?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
“Biggest problem I have is being in the same room with you.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“You’re a cop, I have a blade in my hand. You’re obviously on some sort of police business.”
“You’re not in trouble Mike. I just want to talk.”
“And snatch the razor from my hand and send me to the loony house. I don’t need your help.”
He nods his head like he‘s thinking about what I just said. “Why do you think this,” he waves his fingers at the razor in my hand, “is going to solve anything?”
“You don’t know what my problems are,” I hiss at him. “So you walk in on me while I’m doing something private, that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to know anything about me. It doesn’t give you permission.”
“So I’m asking you Mike. What’s on your mind? What’s making you do this?”
“Nobody is making me do this!”
He‘s quiet for a few seconds. Thinking.
“I didn’t say who, Mike. I said what.” He looks at me like my head is cracked open and he just has to reach in to get the answers. I can’t stand looking at his gray eyes, gray like his sweatshirt and hair, like a fog rolling in to smother me. So I look away. I always look away.
“So who‘s making you hurt so bad?” he asks me quietly.
Chapter Two
9 comments:
I'm really enjoying this story so far. I especially enjoyed the prologue. Original and fresh, yet not far out as original and fresh things these days are wont to be. I did notice this though:
"By then I had a sickness in me that was slowly smothering me to death, and I didn’t even know it."
"...to death" is really not needed here because it is implied with the word smothering. Also the expression "smothering to death" has become cliché at least in the south. I realize this character is in the habit of over dramatizing her life, but I knew that from the sock metaphor.
In the main story, I noticed a consistent misuse of the article "a" before words beginning with vowels or the letter "h". H is included with the vowels in the states anyway regarding the usage rule for a and an. Are you doing this for the sake of dialect or some other reason? I would advise you not to if that's the case. It just looks like a mistake on the author's part.
The character of Ms. Byrd is delicious. I have known quite a few of her having grown up in Alabama during the 60s. The kids' reactions to her is perfect and very amusing. I especially loved Mike's quip to Ms. Byrd concerning her aspiration to teach English to ignorant natives. LOL Cracked me up. Also, the way you've written the dialect for Ms. Byrd is perfect. Using "Ah" for "I" tells me right away how she sounds. I am very familiar with the dialect in question. LOL I'm not sure how this will play for non southerners but for me it works beautifully.
I laughed out loud when reading her compositions. Both of them. With every paragraph, I found myself admiring this kid and really liking her. Reminded me of reading To Kill a Mockingbird and the way I fell in love with Scout.
"The laughter faded and Ms Byrd continued with the lesson. Anger crawled it’s way up my belly, leaving a burning a path to my throat. I took deep breaths to calm myself, and only succeeded in feeding the red embers behind my eyes. My mood, which had been volatile all day, began to match the sky outside with it’s swirly blacks and grays. I neatly flipped to a clean looseleaf page, and began to write in earnest."
I did have a problem with this paragraph. "only succeeded in feeding the red embers behind my eyes" seems to work again what follows, "swirly blacks and grays". I think maybe "feeding the anger" would work as well and not work against the imagery you're setting up.
There was a tiny bit of awkwardness in these lines:
"I kept my poise, gliding down the aisle as though she was just a tiny stumble on the way to accept my crown. I almost missed the door since I looking back and waving graciously to the rest of the class."
I think perhaps "on my way to accept the crown" would read a little more clearly, avoiding confusion over which noun is associating with "way". Because stumble is closer in proximity and is being used as a noun, it reads like the stumble is on the way. Also, I'm sure this was a typo but as the spell checker wouldn't catch it I'll point it out:
"I almost missed the door since I was looking back"
Okay, this is getting way too long now. LOL Basically, I just spotted little problems with grammar here and there. Things that you will undoubtedly catch yourself on a second draft.
I have to admit, when I came to the cutting part of the story, even though you warned us at the top, I was not at all prepared. By that point, I was loving this kid so the revelation is even more shocking. I suspect you may need some underpinning for this. Some bit of backstory that foreshadows the behavior. I hope this helps a bit. You've done a wonderful job with the story so far, the fact that I compared Mike favorably with Scout is about the highest praise I could give this actually. Thanks very much.
Thanks pb, I've taken note of your suggestions. Very helpful.
I'm glad you were shocked. That was exactly the reaction I was aiming for. Most kids that cut do so in secrecy, and when families and friends find out, the reactions are inevitably shock and many times revulsion.
The 'underpinning' will come in subsequent chapters. Without giving away too much, the next chapter will go back to 5th grade and progress from there back to the present. If I do this right, the reader will finally understand the reasons why Mike finds herself in a Black Box with a razor in her hand.
BTW, the title is tentative, I think there's already a book out there with the title 'MIKE'. ;)
Thea, glad to see you posting here. I enjoyed the first chapter. It looks like PB gave you a good critique, so I won’t add much. The only things I noticed were…
Typo: the “a” between burning and path.
leaving a burning a path to my throat.
Typo: need “was” between I and looking.
I almost missed the door since I looking back and waving graciously to the rest of the class. My walk was inspiring.
The prologue confused me a little, but then it started to come together as I began reading. Your doing a good job with this and I’m interested to see it pan out. Good job with developing the characters early, you were able to get me hooked on the story quickly and it is well written. I look forward to more :)
-Steve
Thanks for the comments Steve.
I've read and reread this chapter so many times that I see words that aren't even there, (but they are in my head). ;)
Will be posting the next chapter within a few days, glad you enjoyed this one.
Hey TheaMak, I'll just jump right in.
"Pearl Creek on the Coast Community College otherwise known as PC on the CCC, was listed as one of the most prestigious 2 year schools in the Elite Junior Colleges For Aspiring Young Women manual. This was mainly due to the century old Miss Hospitality pageant, which had historically propelled talented young women into successful careers as governesses, typists and hostesses, in only the most premier establishments, of course."
--Who's saying this? It's not the teacher. And it's definetly not something Mike would be able to just rattle off. Besides that though, does it matter?
“Mikaela Watts!” Geez, she could screech. “Kindly join this class!” I had been totally zoned out, watching the monstrous black clouds gather over the school parking lot, when I was shocked back into English Comp by Ms Byrd’s high pitched squeal. I pulled out my notebook without too much attitude; it wasn’t like I was looking for trouble. In the months that had followed our first encounter, Ms Byrd and I had come to a certain understanding"
--Is this a few months after the day she asks why she's teaching at Armstrong? The part about months passing comes in the middle of the paragraph. Maybe something to re establish the time frame before going into this paragraph. Something as simple as starting with: "In the first three months of school I had been sent to detention three times - all by Ms Bird"
"A Writer’s Laxative: We Help You Go"
--I don't buy this title at all. Way too cute.
“Anne Clare read it the last two times, Ms Byrd,” I called out. It wasn’t that I really cared who read the dumb prompt; except for Anne Clare that is - it was a matter of principle. Ms Byrd turned quickly in my direction, not a single hair on her head moving. She fixed a cold stare on me before speaking very slowly.
“Ah don’t believe anything will get hurt if Anne Clare speaks in front of the class twice in a row.” She turned to Anne Clare, speaking like a normal person again. “Please read us the inspiring prompt-of-the-day, in your lovely voice.”
--I dont think they show up in my comments, but you have 4 italicized words in these 2 parts. It might just be a matter of style, but I don't think they're necessary.
"I barked out a laugh before I could stop it, sounding pretty much like a hysterical seal. A traitorous smile remained on my lips as I clamped my mouth shut. Anne Clare shot a contemptuous look in my direction and primly sat down at Ms Byrd’s small wave. Ms Byrd turned her eyes on me."
I was going to save this comment for the end, but I guess this paragraph highlights it pretty well. We have no idea when Mike is writing this. We know she's a freshman in high school during this scene, but she could be writing this at any time. End of freshman year? End of senior year? When's she 35? It's a very important fact that frames the story. The reason this paragraph touches on it is: 'hysterical', 'traitorous', 'contemptuous', and 'primly'. Wow. Quite a vocab for anyone, let alone a freshman in school. It's obvious that Mike is a very smart girl, but it's hard for me to accept the fact she would use all those words if indeed she's writing this as a freshman (which I'm forced to assume she is, since I haven't been told)
I'm not sure what I think of the cop right now. I only have one chapter to go on, but judging by your comments it seems like everything else is going to be in the past and lead back to this moment, making it the climax or final progression of forward movement in the story. If that is the case, then I think I'd have to view the cop as a deus ex machina. He pretty much does exactly what one of those do: appear out of nowhere to save the day. It is probable? Yah, I guess. Is it something the reader could expect if the story was told linerally? Probably not. Is it the best way to save Mike? I don't know yet.
Overall I think there's a lot of potential in Mike. The contradition between her loose and free wheeling personality in dealing with Ms Bird and her feelings of restraint and confinement on the inside is very intriguing. She's not the kind of girl most people would expect to sneak to the auditorium to cut herself. There's really only so much to say after just one chapter, so I'm looking forward to the next one. Hope some of this helps.
As I was reading this through the first time I kept thinking of To Kill a Mockingbird. I just assumed it was because of the bright young female character having trouble with the conventions of the staid Southern establishment. That is how it reads, at least for me.
But after reading Wojo's remarks, I realized the main reason why this reminds me of Mockingbird, it's the narrator. An older and wiser narrator filling in the adult perspective for her younger self. So in a sense, the story is told by both the little girl, Scout, as well as her grown up self many years later.
Harper Lee's method for making the whole thing work could probably work for you as well. She starts the narrative in past tense, reminiscing and also tossing out a few tantalizing statements that we don't get to understand until nearly the end. It wouldn't take much effort to create a paragraph or two at the beginning to frame this that way. Just an idea of course.
The problem, of course, in posting chapters, is that the book isn't in front of the reader to keep that continuity going.
Wojo: The grade is established in the first paragraph of the main story. It's been my experience that some teenagers, particularly the brighter ones, do speak and think with better vocabularies. Their speech is indeed, peppered with lots of 'like', 'whatever' and 'I don't get it', as with the average kid, but that's just teenage slang, the vocab is there.
pb: Honestly, I'm not writing Mike; Mike is remembering and telling us things in whatever way she remembers. I know this sounds simplistic, but I find that when she is 10, as in the 2nd chapter, she speaks as a 10 year old. Later when she is older and in terrible pain, something else comes out because she is a special kid. That someone is her later in life, but not active in the story. I'm making this sound very complicated; Mike doesn't switch voices midstory, but her memories are true to their time. However, no matter how old she is, those memories are tempered by the age she is when she remembers. We all do this.
This, I think is how we learn from our past mistakes.
Okay, I hope this makes sense. ;)
Hello again. I see that the grade is established. 3 years ago, sixth grade, which places her as a freshman. Maybe I'm just being picky about a detial that doesn't matter, but what I was trying to say is that her age is not established as the story teller. The action that happens in the story, the memories she remembers, are all grounded fine.
Because there's a past tense prolouge, she could be looking back at this at any time. This may or may not be a good example, but it's the only thing I can think of right now - Jane Eyre. It's the story of Jane's life, starting when she was eight years old. Jane starts telling it at the begining and it carries up to the present when she's however old, 30 or something. But you learn right away that she's re telling these childhood events as an adult which shapes her, and the reader's perceptions of those events. Phrases like, 'I didn't know it at the time' or 'Now it occurs to me that..'
I understand the memory part, her telling things as she remembers. I'm just curious if she's remembering a day after the last thing happened, or three years, or ten.
Now, I'm the one who's probably making this sound very complicated, but let me know what you think and we should be able to sort this little mystery out.
There is one voice, two perspectives. Did I plan it this way, no. It's just the way the story is evolving and flowing.
I think this is the way we remember and just as we don't ask ourselves how old we are as we reminisce, I don't think this will be necessary in 'Mike" either. I won't know that until the story is complete.
Maybe as the following chapters are posted, things might clear up, (or not). ;)
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