paper in her hand, a photograph torn from a magazine—“do you happen to know anything about this?”
I shake my head and say, “No.” Because I don’t.
Better to Fail in Originality than Succeed in Imitation
In class, Miss Dovecott holds it up to show us all. She explains that someone left the photograph of the naked woman on her desk. Across the glossy breasts, someone has drawn a picture of a very large penis with a typed caption: “Miss Dovecott and Moby’s Dick.”
Everyone knows it’s her favorite novel; she talks about it all the time, saying how we should read it on our own, which of course none of us will. Miss Dovecott makes sure we have a very good look at the artwork before she sets it facedown on her desk. No one has confessed thus far, she says. She wants to know if we know anything about it. It’s embarrassing—we are embarrassed for her—and we look away. Truth be told, the picture could have been torn out of any of the hundreds of porn magazines stuffed under mattresses or stashed behind toilets all over campus. I glance at Glenn; he is staring straight ahead at nothing. He looks the way he looked when we gathered in the hall of our dorm last year and listened to Spalding Frazier break up with his girlfriend over the phone. I remembered thinking that Glenn, who also had a girlfriend at the time, would have handled a breakup differently: using the pay phone in the gym or writing the girl a letter. He would never have done it in public.
All during English class, Miss Dovecott keeps her arms folded across the front of her white turtleneck sweater. I remember the first day she wore this sweater: September 22. (Is that the first official day of autumn? I can never get those equinoxes straight.) I wrote it in my notes for that day—“sweater”—which was a reminder for me down the roadthat I didn’t pay one bit of attention in class to what I was supposed to be paying attention to. The sweater makes her breasts look big. Today she looks the way I feel—which is to say that sometimes, I don’t know what to do or how to feel.
I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts .
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 15, 9:19 A.M .
The Samuel E. Walter IV Memorial Library is my rock. My Rock of Gibraltar. If I go back to dorm with this book in my hands, there is nowhere I can hide it, nowhere where it won’t be found. I will be cut, cut to shreds, if anyone, especially Glenn, finds this. This is the hard part to put on paper.
Rock, Paper, Scissors
Glenn tells Thomas to watch closely, to jump and not dive, to be sure that he knows exactly how far he needs to sling his body to clear the shallows.
After he comes up sputtering for air, Glenn yells up to us, “Double jump! I dare you!” I turn to Thomas, he turns to me. I am about to say, Maybe we shouldn’t, and then Glenn shouts again from the water.
So I go, “Rock, Paper, Scissors”—the last words I ever speak to Thomas—and one, two, three, he holds out rock, Ihold out paper. Thomas dives through the sky. I do not wait for him to surface before I jump.
The sick thing is that after I go under, I pretend like I’m drowning. I pop up, flailing my arms, opening my mouth wide, making gasping noises. I’m not even looking at Thomas—or for him. I’m flopping around in the water. Over my own fake drama, I hear Glenn scream Thomas’s name.
Right before Thomas dove, he said things.
25. Before I even realize it, I jump, too. We all go into the river. See Dick and Jane go under. Jump, Dick. Jump, Jane. (If only I were writing a children’s book. If I were writing a children’s book, I’d be done by now.) But Thomas does not jump, he dives. Thomas enters the water headfirst.
26. Thomas’s head finds a rock that is harder than his head.
27. His lungs fill with water.
28. Drown, Thomas, drown.
A Rough Draft
October 15, 1982
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Broughton
,
I have been wanting to write for a couple of weeks now, but I did not know exactly what
I shake my head and say, “No.” Because I don’t.
Better to Fail in Originality than Succeed in Imitation
In class, Miss Dovecott holds it up to show us all. She explains that someone left the photograph of the naked woman on her desk. Across the glossy breasts, someone has drawn a picture of a very large penis with a typed caption: “Miss Dovecott and Moby’s Dick.”
Everyone knows it’s her favorite novel; she talks about it all the time, saying how we should read it on our own, which of course none of us will. Miss Dovecott makes sure we have a very good look at the artwork before she sets it facedown on her desk. No one has confessed thus far, she says. She wants to know if we know anything about it. It’s embarrassing—we are embarrassed for her—and we look away. Truth be told, the picture could have been torn out of any of the hundreds of porn magazines stuffed under mattresses or stashed behind toilets all over campus. I glance at Glenn; he is staring straight ahead at nothing. He looks the way he looked when we gathered in the hall of our dorm last year and listened to Spalding Frazier break up with his girlfriend over the phone. I remembered thinking that Glenn, who also had a girlfriend at the time, would have handled a breakup differently: using the pay phone in the gym or writing the girl a letter. He would never have done it in public.
All during English class, Miss Dovecott keeps her arms folded across the front of her white turtleneck sweater. I remember the first day she wore this sweater: September 22. (Is that the first official day of autumn? I can never get those equinoxes straight.) I wrote it in my notes for that day—“sweater”—which was a reminder for me down the roadthat I didn’t pay one bit of attention in class to what I was supposed to be paying attention to. The sweater makes her breasts look big. Today she looks the way I feel—which is to say that sometimes, I don’t know what to do or how to feel.
I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts .
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 15, 9:19 A.M .
The Samuel E. Walter IV Memorial Library is my rock. My Rock of Gibraltar. If I go back to dorm with this book in my hands, there is nowhere I can hide it, nowhere where it won’t be found. I will be cut, cut to shreds, if anyone, especially Glenn, finds this. This is the hard part to put on paper.
Rock, Paper, Scissors
Glenn tells Thomas to watch closely, to jump and not dive, to be sure that he knows exactly how far he needs to sling his body to clear the shallows.
After he comes up sputtering for air, Glenn yells up to us, “Double jump! I dare you!” I turn to Thomas, he turns to me. I am about to say, Maybe we shouldn’t, and then Glenn shouts again from the water.
So I go, “Rock, Paper, Scissors”—the last words I ever speak to Thomas—and one, two, three, he holds out rock, Ihold out paper. Thomas dives through the sky. I do not wait for him to surface before I jump.
The sick thing is that after I go under, I pretend like I’m drowning. I pop up, flailing my arms, opening my mouth wide, making gasping noises. I’m not even looking at Thomas—or for him. I’m flopping around in the water. Over my own fake drama, I hear Glenn scream Thomas’s name.
Right before Thomas dove, he said things.
25. Before I even realize it, I jump, too. We all go into the river. See Dick and Jane go under. Jump, Dick. Jump, Jane. (If only I were writing a children’s book. If I were writing a children’s book, I’d be done by now.) But Thomas does not jump, he dives. Thomas enters the water headfirst.
26. Thomas’s head finds a rock that is harder than his head.
27. His lungs fill with water.
28. Drown, Thomas, drown.
A Rough Draft
October 15, 1982
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Broughton
,
I have been wanting to write for a couple of weeks now, but I did not know exactly what
Similar Books
