closed, the floor already lurching up beneath their feet. “So, you must be all done with classes.”
“Almost.”
“Bet you’re pretty excited.”
“Uh-huh.” Simon paused. “Actually I haven’t thought about it too much, since my parents have been splitting up? I don’t know if you—? No no, it’s totally fine. I mean things got pretty rough but, it is what it is. Better this way.”
As he spoke the neighbor woman did too. “Oh,” she said, “No, I,” “Gosh, I had no,” and “Well.” She spoke to bridge the gaps, to keep him going. She could not have stopped him anyway; Simon could build his own bridges. Or could sink his own ship. Whatever the expression.
“Happens, right? We’ll probably be packing and moving all summer, so but that’s fun. I wasn’t going to go to camp anyway, this year.”
“I’m sorry.” New light fell on her face, light from the hall. The elevator had stopped. They’d reached his floor. “I’m going to write to your mother,” she was saying, the moment that Simon, one leg out the door, lunged at the board, tearing down the page and sending the tack flying.
He watched 16B’s face, all surprise, as the elevator closed. His mother could probably not expect any note.
In the hall he reread the message along the top of the page. The
S
in “SHAFT” was the fancy, curling kind. And “TRASH” was clever, how it could mean two things. Someone had taken the time.
He took the page to his room and closed the door, though it was not yet three—he’d skipped his last two periods—and no one else was home. These were the words that he guessed had embarrassed 16B:
Spread. Tits. Cum.
Also, maybe:
Open. Fingers.
He folded it five times, bent it a sixth, and buried it in his underwear drawer. Hard to say why he’d taken it at all. Not to protect his parents, their privacy. And Simon’s words to 16B shouldn’t have meant much, shouldn’t have reverberated very far. Shouldn’t have but would; he knew they would, enough for their next-door neighbors to hold vigil for signs of cardboard boxes in the stairwell, to wonder where the support beams were, to calculate the dimensions of new living rooms when their two apartments became one.)
In most of them, Jerry and Elaine fell in love. More recently, Elaine and George had been falling in love, and that had been more interesting. Elaine and Kramer would never fall in love. Kramer was not a very well-rounded character. He was not very
dimensional,
as her father would sometimes say about art. Kay’s middle name, Ellen, was very like Elaine’s name, Elaine, a fact that Kay liked about herself.
She didn’t know how it started, only she was sure she didn’t know it was a thing until later, when she found the forums. By then she’d seen all the episodes, which were on every day after school, sometimes two at the same time on different stations, and she’d already written a few herself, though she had recently learned that her formatting was not yet in the standard way. But in the beginning she thought she’d invented it. And in a way, hadn’t she? Invented it to herself. The best was that she could write them anywhere, whenever she was bored, and become not bored.
She wrote them in the back row of math, or she wrote them in the back row of history, or she thought up new stories on the bus ride home with her head bouncing off the window that rattled and her knees pressed against the fake leather seat in front of her, torn in places and patched with tape.
Now in her room after dinner, while her brother played Xbox in the living room and her mother did dishes, Kay wrote ideas in the notebook where homework was supposed to go.
• Kramer goes to a foreign country (Turkey?) and Jerry promises his apartment to Elaine and to George. Fight. Or: they move in together? Love?
• Elaine buys a vintage dress that is white and she doesn’t realize that it is a wedding dress until she goes outside and everyone on the street makes
“Almost.”
“Bet you’re pretty excited.”
“Uh-huh.” Simon paused. “Actually I haven’t thought about it too much, since my parents have been splitting up? I don’t know if you—? No no, it’s totally fine. I mean things got pretty rough but, it is what it is. Better this way.”
As he spoke the neighbor woman did too. “Oh,” she said, “No, I,” “Gosh, I had no,” and “Well.” She spoke to bridge the gaps, to keep him going. She could not have stopped him anyway; Simon could build his own bridges. Or could sink his own ship. Whatever the expression.
“Happens, right? We’ll probably be packing and moving all summer, so but that’s fun. I wasn’t going to go to camp anyway, this year.”
“I’m sorry.” New light fell on her face, light from the hall. The elevator had stopped. They’d reached his floor. “I’m going to write to your mother,” she was saying, the moment that Simon, one leg out the door, lunged at the board, tearing down the page and sending the tack flying.
He watched 16B’s face, all surprise, as the elevator closed. His mother could probably not expect any note.
In the hall he reread the message along the top of the page. The
S
in “SHAFT” was the fancy, curling kind. And “TRASH” was clever, how it could mean two things. Someone had taken the time.
He took the page to his room and closed the door, though it was not yet three—he’d skipped his last two periods—and no one else was home. These were the words that he guessed had embarrassed 16B:
Spread. Tits. Cum.
Also, maybe:
Open. Fingers.
He folded it five times, bent it a sixth, and buried it in his underwear drawer. Hard to say why he’d taken it at all. Not to protect his parents, their privacy. And Simon’s words to 16B shouldn’t have meant much, shouldn’t have reverberated very far. Shouldn’t have but would; he knew they would, enough for their next-door neighbors to hold vigil for signs of cardboard boxes in the stairwell, to wonder where the support beams were, to calculate the dimensions of new living rooms when their two apartments became one.)
In most of them, Jerry and Elaine fell in love. More recently, Elaine and George had been falling in love, and that had been more interesting. Elaine and Kramer would never fall in love. Kramer was not a very well-rounded character. He was not very
dimensional,
as her father would sometimes say about art. Kay’s middle name, Ellen, was very like Elaine’s name, Elaine, a fact that Kay liked about herself.
She didn’t know how it started, only she was sure she didn’t know it was a thing until later, when she found the forums. By then she’d seen all the episodes, which were on every day after school, sometimes two at the same time on different stations, and she’d already written a few herself, though she had recently learned that her formatting was not yet in the standard way. But in the beginning she thought she’d invented it. And in a way, hadn’t she? Invented it to herself. The best was that she could write them anywhere, whenever she was bored, and become not bored.
She wrote them in the back row of math, or she wrote them in the back row of history, or she thought up new stories on the bus ride home with her head bouncing off the window that rattled and her knees pressed against the fake leather seat in front of her, torn in places and patched with tape.
Now in her room after dinner, while her brother played Xbox in the living room and her mother did dishes, Kay wrote ideas in the notebook where homework was supposed to go.
• Kramer goes to a foreign country (Turkey?) and Jerry promises his apartment to Elaine and to George. Fight. Or: they move in together? Love?
• Elaine buys a vintage dress that is white and she doesn’t realize that it is a wedding dress until she goes outside and everyone on the street makes
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