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.
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