English I glance across the oak table at Sierra, who seems upset, distant. Casey’s late again, and she bangs into the room in her wheelchair in the middle of a discussion of the first-person narration in
The Bell Jar.
There’s a long pause, and I think we’re all nervous. “Casey,” Mrs. Quenell finally says. “The world will not wait.”
This is the
world
?
“Sorry,” Casey mutters.
Mrs. Quenell turns back to the class. “As I’ve said, the book was written over fifty years ago,” she says. “But can any of you relate to it today?”
“Sure,” says Casey. “You could say I’m trapped in my own little bell jar on wheels.”
Me, I think, I’ve got my own version too. I think about how, after Reeve died, I used to lie in bed all day hearing my family and friends talk about me out in the front hall or the living room. I began to feel as if my bed were its own island, and I was floating farther and farther away from everyone with only my thoughts about Reeve to accompany me.
“The isolation is just so hard,” I say, and right away I’m embarrassed that I’ve spoken.
Mrs. Quenell looks at me. “Yes,” she says. “And you’re all so young. Plath’s protagonist is young too. To be on the verge of your life and not be able to enter it . . . that ought to be prevented whenever possible.”
Everyone is paying very close attention to her. We’re talking about the novel, right? But maybe we’re not. We’re talking about ourselves. And I guess that’s what can start to happen when you talk about a book.
I remember reading
Charlotte’s Web
with my mom when I was little. I was sitting next to her on the brown couch in the den when Charlotte died. And it was as if that little barn spider was my actual friend. Or even as if she was
me.
I guess I suddenly knew that I was going to die someday too. I really, really knew it for the first time, and I was shocked, and I cried.
Just the way Sylvia Plath’s character Esther’s depression now makes me feel:
Oh, I get it.
And her isolation reminds me of how I’ve been feeling since the whole thing with Reeve.
“Yeah,” says Griffin, nodding. “It’s like you can’t talk to other people. What do they know about what you’re going through? Nothing.”
“Nothing at all,” I agree.
“So other people know nothing at all,” says Mrs. Quenell. “And Esther seems to feel that way too, and she’s alone inside her despair. Nothing changes for her. Which, I guess, is the opposite of life.”
“Isn’t death the opposite of life?” asks Sierra. It’s the first time today she’s joined the conversation.
“I think
not changing
is sort of like dying,” says Griffin, and I can tell he’s uncomfortable actually taking part in a vaguely literary discussion. I bet he’s never done that before in his life. “But maybe I’m wrong, Mrs. Q,” he adds quickly.
Mrs. Q! A couple of people laugh nervously. Yet right away the name fits, and it
stays,
just the way Leo started calling me Jam, and it stayed.
“You know much more than you think,
Mr. F,
” she says. “Change can be crucial. Everything is changing all the time. Your cells are changing this very minute. The view from that window is slightly different from how it was a few seconds ago.”
I automatically look toward the window, and almost as if Mrs. Quenell planned it, a leaf blows off the tree and slaps the glass. It clings for a second, before spinning away.
“We can’t be afraid of change,” she tells us. “Or else we’ll miss out on everything.”
Class is almost over. Mrs. Quenell peers at her watch, seeming to want to bring herself back into the moment. We’ve all been far away, thinking about Sylvia Plath, and her alter ego, Esther Greenwood, and, of course, ourselves. This class is like one of those twenty-four-hour convenience stores, except the only thing this one sells is depression. If it were actually a store, it would be called Bleak Mart.
And I do feel bleak. That
The Bell Jar.
There’s a long pause, and I think we’re all nervous. “Casey,” Mrs. Quenell finally says. “The world will not wait.”
This is the
world
?
“Sorry,” Casey mutters.
Mrs. Quenell turns back to the class. “As I’ve said, the book was written over fifty years ago,” she says. “But can any of you relate to it today?”
“Sure,” says Casey. “You could say I’m trapped in my own little bell jar on wheels.”
Me, I think, I’ve got my own version too. I think about how, after Reeve died, I used to lie in bed all day hearing my family and friends talk about me out in the front hall or the living room. I began to feel as if my bed were its own island, and I was floating farther and farther away from everyone with only my thoughts about Reeve to accompany me.
“The isolation is just so hard,” I say, and right away I’m embarrassed that I’ve spoken.
Mrs. Quenell looks at me. “Yes,” she says. “And you’re all so young. Plath’s protagonist is young too. To be on the verge of your life and not be able to enter it . . . that ought to be prevented whenever possible.”
Everyone is paying very close attention to her. We’re talking about the novel, right? But maybe we’re not. We’re talking about ourselves. And I guess that’s what can start to happen when you talk about a book.
I remember reading
Charlotte’s Web
with my mom when I was little. I was sitting next to her on the brown couch in the den when Charlotte died. And it was as if that little barn spider was my actual friend. Or even as if she was
me.
I guess I suddenly knew that I was going to die someday too. I really, really knew it for the first time, and I was shocked, and I cried.
Just the way Sylvia Plath’s character Esther’s depression now makes me feel:
Oh, I get it.
And her isolation reminds me of how I’ve been feeling since the whole thing with Reeve.
“Yeah,” says Griffin, nodding. “It’s like you can’t talk to other people. What do they know about what you’re going through? Nothing.”
“Nothing at all,” I agree.
“So other people know nothing at all,” says Mrs. Quenell. “And Esther seems to feel that way too, and she’s alone inside her despair. Nothing changes for her. Which, I guess, is the opposite of life.”
“Isn’t death the opposite of life?” asks Sierra. It’s the first time today she’s joined the conversation.
“I think
not changing
is sort of like dying,” says Griffin, and I can tell he’s uncomfortable actually taking part in a vaguely literary discussion. I bet he’s never done that before in his life. “But maybe I’m wrong, Mrs. Q,” he adds quickly.
Mrs. Q! A couple of people laugh nervously. Yet right away the name fits, and it
stays,
just the way Leo started calling me Jam, and it stayed.
“You know much more than you think,
Mr. F,
” she says. “Change can be crucial. Everything is changing all the time. Your cells are changing this very minute. The view from that window is slightly different from how it was a few seconds ago.”
I automatically look toward the window, and almost as if Mrs. Quenell planned it, a leaf blows off the tree and slaps the glass. It clings for a second, before spinning away.
“We can’t be afraid of change,” she tells us. “Or else we’ll miss out on everything.”
Class is almost over. Mrs. Quenell peers at her watch, seeming to want to bring herself back into the moment. We’ve all been far away, thinking about Sylvia Plath, and her alter ego, Esther Greenwood, and, of course, ourselves. This class is like one of those twenty-four-hour convenience stores, except the only thing this one sells is depression. If it were actually a store, it would be called Bleak Mart.
And I do feel bleak. That
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