– Noreen Lace
I received a letter quite recently from a woman who’d read my book and came across my biography in the back. She said she’d come from the same hometown and wondered if I might be the same David Wright who was in her remedial English class in middle school. Ah, yes, guilty. I was in remedial English, but there was no fear of discovery or even shame of once being a remedial studies student that came up for me, just the vivid memories of that class, those students, that girl.
She was the only girl who talked to me. Some of the boys did, but none of the girls. I had this thick crop of curly hair and, if I had my way, I’d have let it grow long enough to cover my face. As it was, my hair only covered my eyes when I tilted my head downward, which was usually how I tilted it. She only began talking to me when Bruce, the boy who sat between us, stole her book. She asked me if I’d seen him take it. I had, but was too shy to say so. Shaking my head from side to side, I dropped my gaze to the desk. Bruce was a six-foot-two-inch, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound either grader who grew facial hair that matched the tufts sticking out of his shirt sleeves and neckline. Needless to say, he feared no one. I, however, did. She turned to him, asked him for the book. It was a strange scene to watch as he handed her the book; the look on his face, as if he’d been challenged but was certain he’d win without effort. The front page where the names of the students were written had been ripped out. Knowing she was right, but defeated all the same, she started to hand it back to him. Then, as if something occurred to her, she snatched the book close to her, opened it, and searched. Looking up at him confidently, she spun the book around and shoved it toward his face. There. Her name scrawled down the very center of the book. Victory. She drew the book back and placed it on the desk next to her.
Amazed she’d stood up to Bruce, even if it was just to take her own book back, a feeling of giddiness overtook me and I smiled under my shroud of hair. She’d beaten him, and I sat impressed that she had so much courage and confidence. I wished I’d any at all. A sudden and painful strike burned at my shoulder. Bruce took his frustrations out on me.
“Mr Harvey!” She interrupted the class by standing up. “Bruce just stole my book, I took it back and he just punched this kid.”
This kid. She didn’t even know my name, but I knew every bounce of her hair, every place the light shone on it, every shadow. I’d memorized the curve of her face. She didn’t smile much; most of the time she looked somehow unaffected by the rest of the world around her, until the moment Bruce had taken her book. Then, suddenly, the whole world seemed to come out of her.
“I think you should move him.”
The conversation continued, but I was oblivious to it. Suddenly, Bruce was no longer there. Mr. Harvey moved him to the very back of the room between two empty desks and that was where he remained for the rest of the semester. The desk between her and I remained vacant. It didn’t occur to me that a girl had just stood up for me or that Bruce might want revenge. At that moment, surprised that anyone would ever stand up for me, in awe that she had actually done it, I hoped against all hope that she would continue to notice me over the now empty desk. If I could work up the courage to say something, anything, to her, I was certain that she might even respond.
After class, I followed her to the library. It was study hall. She worked as an aide. I was now her puppy dog, bound to be loyal and faithful. Taking a seat in the middle of the tables, I hoped she’d see me, maybe even sit and talk. But she went right to work reshelving books. I sat for a long time watching through my massive waves of hair. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to offer her my help. I volunteered as a library aide. As we had the same free period, I’d hopefully be able to work side by side with her. If only things were ever that easy. I mustered enough courage to ask at the desk about volunteering; the librarian looked at me over her wire rims, sucked her teeth in annoyance and pointed me to the back room. I would be checking the books, then placing them in appropriate stacks for repair or reshelving. At the very least, I might see her when she picked up the books.
For a long time I thought I had made a mistake, stuck in the stuffy back rooms while she was out there where I couldn’t even see her. I turned to drop some more books in a pile and there she was with her arm outstretched to me. My breath caught in my throat and I coughed. She held a book toward me, withdrew it to watch me recover, and then held it out again.
“This book’s numbers are missing.”
I stared at her.
Holding the book up to my face so I could see the spine, she pointed. “There’re no numbers, I don’t know where it goes.”
“I’m in your English class, hello.” I held out my hand to introduce myself.
“I know.” She placed the book in my outstretched hand.
Feeling my face redden, I tilted my head forward. Thinking she might go, I waited, but when she didn’t, I shifted the book to my other hand and tried the handshake once again.
“Handshake.” My heart pounded in my throat as my mouth and eyes went dry. “It’s a nice way to say hello.”
“Oh. Uhm. ‘Kay.” She shrugged and took my hand for such a quick moment. The only thing I remember about her touch was that it was sweaty. Or maybe it was me.
Forgetting the book in my other hand I said nothing, waited for her to say something.
“The numbers?”
“Oh, yeah.” I searched the book. Distracted and embarrassed, I took a few moments to realize it was fiction, David Copperfield, and didn’t need a call number. “It’s, uhm, fiction. The fiction books are shelved by the author’s last name. I’ll show you.”
“Oh,” she looked surprised. I thought it was a biography.” She held out her hand for the book, but I walked past her. She followed, and when she caught up with me she said, a bit defensively, “I know where the fiction goes, I just thought it was a biography.”
“A lot of people think that.” I handed her the book, showed her the shelf of Dickens’ novels.
She put it on the shelf, murmured a “thanks,” and started to walk away.
“Have you read it?”
“What?” She turned toward me.
“David Copperfield.”
“Oh, no,” she shook her head. “It’s an awfully big book.”
“That’s the kind of books I like.”
Studying the book, the shelf of Dickens, she ran her fingers over the bindings. “Is it good?”
“Yeah!”
“I like short books. I couldn’t imagine writing something that big. It must have taken years.”
“I could.”
“Could what?”
“I want to write books like that one day.” I pointed to David Copperfield.
“Really? Oh, not me, I’d like to write short books, small books, books people want to read.” Her face lit up.
And so began our library chats between her book shelving and my awkward gestures. I longed so much to touch her just for the human contact; every time we met, I held out my hand for her to shake. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t, sometimes she’d look at me and say, “you’re weird.”
In her letter, I can almost hear her voice, sense her attitude, a sort of carefree optimist. That is how I thought of her at school. The carefree optimist. She believed she could be a writer, thought that I’d be a better one because I “read bigger books.” But she’d be happy, she said, as long as someone bought hers. I’m sure she’d tell me that the carefree optimist picture I’ve painted was wrong. I’m sure her adolescence was as difficult as mine. Those worried looks on her face as the teacher described yet another assignment, yet another activity. Perhaps she, too, was a frightened teenager. Maybe that day she stood up to Bruce she’d had enough. Perhaps she’d tell me that I was her life line too, and I’d want to believe if I didn’t know that, unlike me, she had other friends. During one of our talks in the library, a girl came in and called her away. The friend asked, so I could hear, why she would let me near her. I remember she shrugged as she looked over at me, but it wasn’t a resigned “I let him hand out with me because I feel sorry for him”, it was a nonchalant shrug that said “I don’t see a problem with him.” And, indeed, as if she didn’t see a problem with this short, shy, awkward boy who liked to disappear under his hair.
I reread the letter looking for clues of what she would tell me about her life. She says she’s still a struggling writer, but sees that I’ve overcome. Nah, good editors, I want to tell her. She teaches English and finds it ironic that although we spend our middle school years in remedial English class acting out Pygmalion skits, that we now both earn a living with those skills.
Looking at my row of commercialized fiction – short books, as she called them – I wonder if she looks down on me, thinks I’ve given up real writing for commercial success. The letter doesn’t say she likes the book, it simply says she’d seen the biography in the back. I imagine she’s working on a big book, a David Copperfield that will be acclaimed only after her death. Perhaps she’s given up on the short books, unable to stand the formulaic plots, needing to go her own way, as she did in middle school.
I want to answer this letter. I want to write her back. I wish for the guts to call, but even if I had them, there’s no phone number. I don’t usually answer fan mail. Sometimes, I hire someone to do it for me, a quick “thanks for your support” letter, but I want to tell her things. I want to tell her, yeah, that awkward, funky little kid was me, thanks for seeing me. I want to say damn, I wouldn’t have made it through that year without our talks about reading, writing, or even homework. I want to say, but won’t, that I went home every night believing that we would someday get married. For me, the falling in love part had already happened.
I search the letter again for clues. Is she married? Kids? I have no idea except she signed with the same last name as she had in middle school. There’s hope, I think, as I set the letter next to the keyboard.
The repercussions from Bruce’s middle school torment flood my mind. After that day, he only ever teased me and it was always about her. To me, he’d call her my girlfriend. That didn’t hurt, but I did deny it. I half-longed for her to hear it, both anticipated and frightened of what she might say in return. Perhaps I wished for that formulaic happy ending; maybe that’s why I write what I write now. However, then, that day was not to come. When he did tease me in front of her, it was in the quietness of the empty classroom as we gathered our books. I dropped one of mine and she picked it up to give it back to me.
“Oooo, David’s got a girlfriend, I think she likes you David,” Bruce snickered from his desk in the back.
My face reddened. I tilted my head forward and tried to look at her face through my hair. I wanted to see if she was repulsed.
She didn’t look at me. She looked at her books and then to him. “Maybe you’re jealous because no one likes you.” She gathered her things and left the room.
I’d like to say that I felt his pain, that Bruce was another victim of middle school trauma, but all I could think at that moment was, better him than me.
My fingers pored over the keyboard in an attempt to start my reply. Memories flood my mind and I gush with remember this, remember that? But I think it’s too much memory, too much awkward and maybe misplaced passion. I hit the backspace key until all the words disappear. All except her name. I study that for a while and start another letter. This one begins with a question: “Did you hate middle school as much as I did?” But immediately, I hit the backspace key again. It’s not completely accurate and I don’t want her to think that I didn’t appreciate her presence. I’m overcome with a moment of rationalization: I cannot write this letter. But I must write a letter. I must say something.
Her letter stays there by my computer as I write the next story. When I finish, I try again. I’ll ask her what she thinks of my work. But no; perhaps she’ll tell me the truth and I’ll be crushed. It sits there through three rejections letters and I think she might appreciate hearing about them, being a struggling writer herself, but then I think better of it. Maybe she’ll think I’m being smug. When I receive the offer of publication, I want to share the good news with her, but then I think it will be best to wait until the book is published and send her a signed copy. When the book comes out, I worry that I’ll come across as pompous if I send it.
The letter sits there, collects dust, is dusted off, read and reread, and then one day it is just gone. I didn’t even realize it disappeared and have no idea how long it has been gone. It became part of my furniture, part of my desk, and I expected it to be there whenever I reached; then one day I reached and there was nothing to be reached for. I checked with the maid, but she didn’t remember it. I call the letter writing service, but they respond with thank you notes and toss the letters.
Roaming my office, pacing in front of my desk, I want to kick myself. If I’d just finished one letter, it could have begun something, could have started something that didn’t get started in middle school. I stare at the empty space where the letter sat for so long and I think of that girl from middle school. The shine of her hair, the way she smiled, the curve of her face from my side view two seats away. I think of how we lost touch back then. School ended, the summer dragged on and on, and when high school started she just wasn’t there.
Noreen Lace
Noreen’s poetry and fiction has appeared in The Northridge Review, The Avatar Review, and Natural Bridge, among others, with her poetry receiving an honourable mention in the Directions Poetry Contest. She is currently working on a novella with hopes of publication in the spring. Her website is http://www.NoreenLace.com