by Rebecca
cover art by 14-year-old Rebecca
Four years ago, when I wrote this story, I thought it was about friendship.
One month ago, when I returned to it in search of lesbian subtext, I realized just how wrong I was.
It's not even subtext. It's just text.
Enjoy!
One month ago, when I returned to it in search of lesbian subtext, I realized just how wrong I was.
It's not even subtext. It's just text.
Enjoy!
September 17th
4:30 P.M.
4:30 P.M.
I learned a life lesson today: it is extremely difficult to use a typewriter on a school bus. I was determined to get at least seven brilliant pages out of the old thing, but, of course, I had forgotten to dust it off and brush off the spider webs. And there is nothing worse than finding a dead spider crunched in your perfect manuscript like a pressed flower. It totally ruins the mood.
Oh, I had completely forgotten to introduce myself! My name's Bianca. I live with my mom and little sister in a precariously perched apartment that always smells faintly of lettuce and chocolate chips. And this morning, I found a typewriter in the attic.
When I was crawling around the attic searching for a new hat (you never know what you'll find up there), I noticed a shining beacon of brass keys illuminated by the light from the chink in the floorboards. I peered over it, monocle in hand, and realized that it was...a typewriter! So I threw it in my already overstuffed backpack and dragged it (and my sister) to school.
When I pulled it out of my bag on the bus in the morning, I noticed a few residual dust bunnies fluttering around on the brown brass 'Z'. If I were a rational person, I would have shoved it back in my backpack as quickly as possible and cleaned it off in the sink at school. But as you can probably already tell, if there's anything I'm not, it's a rational person. So I flicked off the dust bunnies, blew some dust "accidentally" at that annoying girl on my bus, and started to work.
You should have seen my mom's face that afternoon when I shuffled in the door with a typewriter-shaped gray spot on my white pleated skirt and a spider-stained manuscript in hand. But now I'm in my room and writing in semi-peace. It really annoys me how everyone is supposed to be happy all the time. Like that annoying girl on the bus - has anyone ever seen her not smiling? I bet she just lives in a permanent state of smiling. I wonder how her jaws manage.
I hate that girl, from her painstakingly waved golden highlighted hair to her perfectly manicured floral toenails. She always stares at the white-blond feather duster that tries to call itself my hair and whatever hat is perched on it that day. I mean, what would she care about my hair? She probably wants to give me that "well-meaning advice" those girls are always giving me.
Oh, I had completely forgotten to introduce myself! My name's Bianca. I live with my mom and little sister in a precariously perched apartment that always smells faintly of lettuce and chocolate chips. And this morning, I found a typewriter in the attic.
When I was crawling around the attic searching for a new hat (you never know what you'll find up there), I noticed a shining beacon of brass keys illuminated by the light from the chink in the floorboards. I peered over it, monocle in hand, and realized that it was...a typewriter! So I threw it in my already overstuffed backpack and dragged it (and my sister) to school.
When I pulled it out of my bag on the bus in the morning, I noticed a few residual dust bunnies fluttering around on the brown brass 'Z'. If I were a rational person, I would have shoved it back in my backpack as quickly as possible and cleaned it off in the sink at school. But as you can probably already tell, if there's anything I'm not, it's a rational person. So I flicked off the dust bunnies, blew some dust "accidentally" at that annoying girl on my bus, and started to work.
You should have seen my mom's face that afternoon when I shuffled in the door with a typewriter-shaped gray spot on my white pleated skirt and a spider-stained manuscript in hand. But now I'm in my room and writing in semi-peace. It really annoys me how everyone is supposed to be happy all the time. Like that annoying girl on the bus - has anyone ever seen her not smiling? I bet she just lives in a permanent state of smiling. I wonder how her jaws manage.
I hate that girl, from her painstakingly waved golden highlighted hair to her perfectly manicured floral toenails. She always stares at the white-blond feather duster that tries to call itself my hair and whatever hat is perched on it that day. I mean, what would she care about my hair? She probably wants to give me that "well-meaning advice" those girls are always giving me.
September 18th
10:00 A.M.
10:00 A.M.
The girl has a name. Ashley. I wonder if people grow to suit their names, or if their names grow to suit them.
"Read More" to continue
Either way, her name fits her like a glove. Speaking of fitting like a glove, her shirt is gorgeous. I want to meet her personal shopper. I'm sure she has one. After all, her name is Ashley. The name Ashely is like a breed of girl.
I learned her name this morning when her friend yelled, "Oh Em Gee! Ashley!" She carelessly flicked her hair over her shoulder and trotted off to join the blond-curled girl who was waving ferociously at her like an angry poodle. I turned my head to hide a rueful grin in the fronds of my white-blond hair.
School was as usual. I never know what to say about school. Like, if everyone at school were to immediately blow up, when I got home and mom asked me how my day was I would probably just respond with the normal, "Good. Can I have a shell cookie?"
I would love to kill Ashley. Really. It would give me that sadistic pleasure that's lacking in my life. I thought I could get it out by writing about everything, but it seems like that's not enough. I think she and her friends have conspired to make my life miserable. Now I'm reduced to typing quietly in a bathroom stall and praying that no rabid lip-gloss appliers will notice me.
This morning, for sadistic-energy-releasing purposes, I made a resolution to join the Kung Fu club. So I went to the meeting, and guess who happened to be there? You got it. Ashley. When I think back, I just remember those two minutes as a blur of feet, mats, the ceiling, and a mumbled excuse about going into the wrong room by accident. Not to mention her eyes. It's almost like she's seeing straight through me; it scares me. Maybe she's not as dim as I thought. The hall lights flickered questioningly as I zoomed down the hall, away, anywhere.
I hate the world. But of course I have to go through the rest of the school day now, including Math. There are two things I loathe about Math: you are expected to be logical, which doesn't come naturally to me, and we get new seats every class.
I learned her name this morning when her friend yelled, "Oh Em Gee! Ashley!" She carelessly flicked her hair over her shoulder and trotted off to join the blond-curled girl who was waving ferociously at her like an angry poodle. I turned my head to hide a rueful grin in the fronds of my white-blond hair.
School was as usual. I never know what to say about school. Like, if everyone at school were to immediately blow up, when I got home and mom asked me how my day was I would probably just respond with the normal, "Good. Can I have a shell cookie?"
I would love to kill Ashley. Really. It would give me that sadistic pleasure that's lacking in my life. I thought I could get it out by writing about everything, but it seems like that's not enough. I think she and her friends have conspired to make my life miserable. Now I'm reduced to typing quietly in a bathroom stall and praying that no rabid lip-gloss appliers will notice me.
This morning, for sadistic-energy-releasing purposes, I made a resolution to join the Kung Fu club. So I went to the meeting, and guess who happened to be there? You got it. Ashley. When I think back, I just remember those two minutes as a blur of feet, mats, the ceiling, and a mumbled excuse about going into the wrong room by accident. Not to mention her eyes. It's almost like she's seeing straight through me; it scares me. Maybe she's not as dim as I thought. The hall lights flickered questioningly as I zoomed down the hall, away, anywhere.
I hate the world. But of course I have to go through the rest of the school day now, including Math. There are two things I loathe about Math: you are expected to be logical, which doesn't come naturally to me, and we get new seats every class.
12:30 P.M.
It's lunch now, and I'm back in my lucky bathroom stall. The scribbled names on the door are like a furious mob, yelling at me to write. So here goes.
That was the worst math class of my life, and believe me, I've had some pretty lousy math classes in my day. Let me start from the beginning.
Mr. Green read out the seating chart and the dreaded name was called next to mine. I plunged helplessly into the sticky blue seat beside my nemesis and glowered at the framed Pascal's Triangle. She kept glancing at me curiously and then, when I was seriously considering taking the ballpoint pen out of Mr. Green's hand and stabbing her in the head, she passed me a carefully folded origami note that read, "Do you want to go get coffee after school with me? Meet me at the main entrance after school if you want to." I scowled even harder and made a point of crumpling it up and throwing it in the direction of the garbage bin. I heard the resolute clunk of paper as it hit Ashley's foot and I smiled sarcastically at her. She smiled back at me and the graffiti on my desk was suddenly fascinating.
It only got better from there. That was sarcastic. In case you couldn't tell. Don't you wish that there were a sarcastic font so that in writing you wouldn't have to say something stupid like that? Anyways, Mr. Green's brow furrowed and he said, "Now, Bianca, you know we don't throw things in class. Please take a moment to think about the disadvantages of throwing things in class." I grabbed my typewriter from under my desk and I was running again, hallway after hallway, until the bell tolled and I found myself wheezing to a stop in front of the girl's bathroom. And here I am. Again.
I am not going to meet her. I am going to stand her up. I am going to be happy to let her suffer. I guess I should probably go, though, and then just say that I don't like coffee or something. But why go just to make an excuse? If I go, I have to just go with her to get coffee. I mean, how much can coffee with another 15-year-old girl hurt you? Don't answer that. But I don't want to go. Why would I be polite to someone who probably hates me? And I hate her too. So I'm not going.
That was the worst math class of my life, and believe me, I've had some pretty lousy math classes in my day. Let me start from the beginning.
Mr. Green read out the seating chart and the dreaded name was called next to mine. I plunged helplessly into the sticky blue seat beside my nemesis and glowered at the framed Pascal's Triangle. She kept glancing at me curiously and then, when I was seriously considering taking the ballpoint pen out of Mr. Green's hand and stabbing her in the head, she passed me a carefully folded origami note that read, "Do you want to go get coffee after school with me? Meet me at the main entrance after school if you want to." I scowled even harder and made a point of crumpling it up and throwing it in the direction of the garbage bin. I heard the resolute clunk of paper as it hit Ashley's foot and I smiled sarcastically at her. She smiled back at me and the graffiti on my desk was suddenly fascinating.
It only got better from there. That was sarcastic. In case you couldn't tell. Don't you wish that there were a sarcastic font so that in writing you wouldn't have to say something stupid like that? Anyways, Mr. Green's brow furrowed and he said, "Now, Bianca, you know we don't throw things in class. Please take a moment to think about the disadvantages of throwing things in class." I grabbed my typewriter from under my desk and I was running again, hallway after hallway, until the bell tolled and I found myself wheezing to a stop in front of the girl's bathroom. And here I am. Again.
I am not going to meet her. I am going to stand her up. I am going to be happy to let her suffer. I guess I should probably go, though, and then just say that I don't like coffee or something. But why go just to make an excuse? If I go, I have to just go with her to get coffee. I mean, how much can coffee with another 15-year-old girl hurt you? Don't answer that. But I don't want to go. Why would I be polite to someone who probably hates me? And I hate her too. So I'm not going.
8:00 P.M.
I had been waiting for her for ten minutes. I guess I left class a little early and ran a little fast. But when I saw that pristine face grinning at me as she pushed open the gate, I realized what I'd gotten myself into. With a burst of much-needed adrenaline, my brain sent me flying to the punk kids, and my semi-friend, G. G and I used to be friends because we were both the odd ones out but she went punk and I went, well, me. But, unlike most of my classmates, she's someone I'm still on speaking terms with.
I caught her just as she was taking off on that black, skull-encrusted moped of hers. Without really thinking about it, I sat down behind her and we were off in a puff of smoke and discarded burdens. I giggled gleefully at my escape and my mood soared. Until I turned around and saw the honest dejection on Ashley's face as she watched me go.
In that instant, I realized seven things. They are as follows:
I caught her just as she was taking off on that black, skull-encrusted moped of hers. Without really thinking about it, I sat down behind her and we were off in a puff of smoke and discarded burdens. I giggled gleefully at my escape and my mood soared. Until I turned around and saw the honest dejection on Ashley's face as she watched me go.
In that instant, I realized seven things. They are as follows:
- She doesn't always smile.
- She likes my hats.
- Her name does not fit her like a glove.
- She doesn't have a personal shopper.
- She likes Kung Fu and isn't trying to thwart me.
- She likes me.
- I want to go get coffee with her.
September 19th
5:00 P.M.
5:00 P.M.
I watched Ashley reading How To Write A Novel on the bus. I took in every aspect of her, from her faded and, I must admit, adorable brown flats, to the dog-eared pages and the pink stickies protruding from the top of the book, to her intense eyes, squeezed in concentration. I crossed the aisle and, as I plopped myself down next to her and began reading over her shoulder, I could have sworn I saw a smile flicker across her face.
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