Everything Must Go

by Jenny Fran Davis

  The scissors made their way around. Agnes—he’s a guy, despite the name, a black guy with dreads, and I don’t know why his parents named him that—cut a huge, ambitious chunk that made Ellis look like someone had taken a bite out of his face. After that, people really got into it. Sam took an even bigger piece and solemnly promised to plant it sacredly in the ground. I kept escaping from the lineup and slithering farther down, avoiding my turn until absolutely everyone else had gone. Ellis’s face was a lot barer now, revealing a receding chin.

  “DO IT,” he instructed.

  “I’m okay,” I said lightly, not wanting to offend him.

  He orchestrated the group in a chant.

  “DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” everyone shouted at me.

  I reached out to touch his face. His beard was crunchy and wiry. My stomach leapt. His black eyes gleamed into my soul, and his little red mouth, now surrounded by awkward strands of red hair, twisted up eagerly at me. I opened the scissors and then pressed down hard. The chunk of beard was between my fingers. Everyone cheered.

  I have few acquaintances. It’s not that I hate everyone, or anything—I just feel like a turtle whose head is stuck in its shell. I feel, frankly, dull and quiet and uninteresting. I wouldn’t mind being friends with my teachers, though. The only thing I WOULD prefer to do is the reading from my classes. I’m such a nerd, I know, but when Juna is out doing whatever it is she does with Marigold, no-chin Becca, and the twins, I’m so happy lying on my bed with a stack of books. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

  It’s also really woodsy here. I just ordered a mosquito net from Amazon (bad me, using the Internet for nonscholarly purposes and cluttering the bandwidth, but it was an emergency), and the second it comes in the mail, I’m hanging it above my bed. I think our hovel is infested with bugs, and the thought of little creatures climbing into my mouth at night makes me want to fall on a sword.

  Tell me all about school! I want to hear about your friends, your professors, your activities … everything! Anything to distract me from here.

  Oh, and when you’re home on fall break, could you search through the boxes in my room at Mum’s for a few things? My wardrobe is crying out for variety.

  • Yellow-and-white-striped mini-dress—mod style one with slightly torn hem

  • Light pink wool dress with cord around waist

  • Faux-suede wrap skirt

  Lots of love,

  Flora

  Flora Goldwasser

  Women’s Literature

  Short response: Jane Eyre

  September 10

  When Jane leaves Lowood School for her position as a governess at Thornfield, she marks the change by presenting a new scene and addressing the reader directly. She narrates:

  A new scene in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and when I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you see a room in the George Inn at Millcote, with such large-figured papering on the walls as inn rooms have; such a carpet, such furniture, such ornaments on the mantelpiece, such prints… . Reader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am not very tranquil in my mind. (111)

  Rather than merely addressing her reader—establishing solidarity but preserving distance—Jane begins to do the analytical work that we readers are accustomed to doing. Hovering above the page, addressing form and distancing herself from plot, narrator Jane’s voice becomes larger than the novel itself, and she moves toward her reader while protagonist Jane remains opaque on the page. Her dissociation—becoming both character and narrator—is deliberate and measured. Jane amplifies her narrative voice by achieving duality, a superhuman feat, and she obscures the distance between us and her by creating one transparent version of herself to come stand beside the reader: Jane is behind the “curtain,” but she is also on our side of it. We watch the unfolding scene together.

  COMMENTS:

  Very interesting observations, Flora. You seem to be suggesting that Jane’s ability to separate herself as narrator from herself as character is where she derives strength: what, then, does this suggest about the role of any woman writer in straddling the line between acting and narrating—between acting as protagonists and authors of our own lives? What changes in ourselves when we write our own stories? And what happens to the stories we tell about ourselves as we live? —Pearl

  Flora Goldwasser

  Pigeonhole 44

  The Quare Academy

  2 Quare Road

  Main Stream, NY 12497

  September 12

  Dear Flora,

  I can’t believe Daddy said that he and Mum are “stable.” That’s fucking hilarious.

  Quare sounds just like I thought it would. It’s still so funny to me that you’re at a place where the focus is on stripping away the frills of life and getting at the depths of the soul. (No offense, but you’re, like, the definition of frill.) Elijah really must have done a number on you. God, you’ve always loved the ones who look meek and mild, haven’t you? (I’m thinking of your thing for Michael Cera last year, obviously.)

  Oh, and I was really moved (read: in tears of laughter) by your description of the conclusion of the orientation exercise. I worry, however, that saving the beard clipping is unsanitary (you didn’t indicate what you did with it). I hope you discarded yours and washed your hands thoroughly.

  The food here is outstanding. I’ll tell you more about my friends soon, but I have to run to a meeting with my TF, the scintillating Susan.

  I found those dresses you asked for. Expect your package in about two weeks. Anything else you want delivered? I’m charging it to Mum’s card, so the heftier the better.

  From,

  Lael

  To: All-staff

  From: Wink DelDuca

  Subject: Miss Tulip

  September 12, 1:12 p.m.

  Salutations,

  Wink here. Forgive me if this letter sounds delusional. I’ve just given a whole lot of blood at the Red Cross and I’m seeing stars, but nothing short of hospitalization could keep me from providing you with information about Miss Tulip.

  As we all know (only too well), Miss Tulip dropped off the face of the earth on April 30 of this past year—the last day the site was updated. She lives on in our memories, eternally clad in a stunning red-and-white plaid skirt suit. My myriad emails to the domain holder have bounced back. My daily jogs in Riverside Park, where she was last photographed, have been fruitless (well, unless you count my ass, which now won’t quit).

  I don’t really have much more info than that, but I do want you to know that we’re working hard to track her down. I have a hard time believing that Elijah Huck decided to stop the blog just like that (it was a shoo-in for a bunch of other awards, after all), but he’s notoriously difficult to get in touch with.

  But we’re not giving up yet, comrades. Miss T means too much to all of us for that. You never see her head, sure, but she really gets under your skin. Besides, how are we supposed to know how to dress without her stalwart example??

  (Just kidding. I know we Nymphette editors all have our own beautiful and unique senses of style. But Miss Tulip really was—is? I’m not quite ready to start speaking about her in past tense—iconic.)

  ;)

  Wink

  Editor in Chief, Nymphette magazine

  Nymphette is an online feminist arts & culture magazine for teenagers. Each month, we choose a theme, and then you send us your writing, photography, and artwork.

  India Katz-Rosen

  1025 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 9C

  New York, NY 10028

  September 12

  India dearest,

  We don’t get grades here—just written evaluations for each class at the middle and at the end of each semester. I think the first round of comments is coming up soon. I’m not worried. All my teachers love me. (I know I can tell you this without sounding like a braggart.) It’s the students I’m not so sure about. It’s not that they hate me, e
xactly, so much as they keep their distance from me, like I’ll infect them with my materialism or something.

  By the way, I didn’t tell you what happened to the student lounge. It used to be in the basement of the dining hall, but one night a little while ago all the seniors took the furniture and created an outside lounge. It’s funny, because they took the door off its hinge too and propped it up in the grass, though of course it’s entirely useless.

  The outside lounge is where the club fair was held this morning. The second-years were all standing next to booths for the clubs they run, chatting with the people milling around and deciding which clubs to join. You’ll find included in this letter a pamphlet embellished with my annotations.

  I lingered at the Guild table. It was the most impressive table, wooden and heavy and round with a curvy pattern carved around the edges. A gold lamp, not connected to any source of power (its cord just lay in the grass like a dead snake), rested on the table. Dean was the only one present. She sat in a stiff-backed nineteenth-century wooden chair that looked out of place, to say the least, wedged into the damp grass. Dean Elliot, she of Quare Share lore (and my mentor! Though sometimes I doubt she remembers my name), was totally motionless and expressionless, hands crossed over her chest, not exactly moodily but with serious (and seriously enviable) ’tude.

  I stood watching her, wondering if the dead expression in her eyes meant that she was a) made of wax, b) unspeakably bored, or c) daydreaming. But finally she caught my eye and wordlessly she beckoned me to approach. She did this without moving her face one bit, but somehow I just KNEW that she wanted me to come over. I did so.

  “This is Guild,” said Dean, gesturing to a small placard on the table. Guild, the placard spelled matter-of-factly in flowery script. “We’re Quare’s oldest and only theater troupe. It’s a society of sorts. I’m master player this year, so it’s my responsibility to recruit new members. We have an elaborate … process, I guess, of selecting people and then having them move up the ladder. If you’re interested, our first meeting is this afternoon. Woolman Theater. The back half of the meetinghouse. During lunch. It’s millet mountains today, but don’t worry. It’ll be worth it.”

  I debated for a moment. Not about the missed millet mountains (they’re mounds of millet stuck together with egg substitute and spices and then baked, and they’re alarmingly tasty), but about joining a CLUB.

  You’ll remember that I was a bit of a Joiner at Bowen. French Club, Movie Appreciation Society, Sewing Club, Bowen Urban Gardening (BUG), Bowen Feminists for Girl Power!, the Bulletin, and yes, the Dramatic Club.

  But at Quare, I lie low. I don’t speak unless spoken to. I don’t volunteer details. I don’t join in unless it’s absolutely mandatory.

  I’ll admit that I’m un peu fatiguée of keeping my eyes down and my mouth closed. Not because I want to BELONG here, God forbid, but because I miss social interaction. But taking the first step—signing my name on the Guild interest list—gave me pause. Once my name was on that list, there was no backing out. I was on the grid. At Quare, I’m like a cat. I need to know I’ll be able to escape whenever I need to. Signing my name would mean giving up that security.

  But I did it. I signed the sheet.

  So I’m writing to you from Woolman Theater, which is indeed at the back half of the meetinghouse (more on that later), waiting for the Guild meeting to start and using this activity—letter-writing—to avoid talking to people. It’s a nice spot, with a great big stage and a long velvet curtain. They even have a fairly sophisticated light system. It’s not as high-tech as the Bowen theaters, of course, but then again, Quare likes to kick it old-school. Also, there’s only so much that the solar panels can do, I guess.

  Meeting’s starting. I’ll keep you posted (literally).

  Love from the farm,

  Flora

  P.S. I’m attaching my annotations on the club fair pamphlet.

  Club fair pamphlet

  • THE EARTH SOCIETY: How can we give back to—rather than take from—the earth?

  (Table featured a plate of quinoa-and-chocolate-cranberry cookies. Run by a gangly environmental hippie and a few barefooted cronies)

  • LANGUEDOC: A group to appreciate the contributions of French artists, particularly the hippies living in the conservative south of France.

  (Run by hipsters, both intellectual and artistic. (You might be thinking that this is my type of club, right? I thought that too, until I noticed the emphasis on painting with menstrual blood. I’m a Francophile, of course, but not that much of a Francophile—I’ll take the pastries and the shoes and leave the “period pieces,” thank you very much)

  • MAIN STREAM POTLUCK: An organization that cooks potlucks for Main Stream residents and Quares to mingle, because we believe that breaking bread together is the answer for mutual healing.

  (Run by activists. Gave out millet mountains to everyone who came by)

  • MAKE LOVE NOT BOMBS: A club that discusses the ways in which safe sex and masturbation can curb cyclical violence.

  (Run by intellectuals with a good bit of activist participation. Filled wheelbarrow with condoms, vibrators, and spermicidal jelly)

  • THE MUSES: A society for budding musicians of all stripes to come together and practice their craft.

  (My neighbor Marigold hung around their table, probably because its leader is a cute harmonica-blowing hipster and not because she’s semi-skilled on the banjo)

  • RUN CLUB: The closest thing Quare has to a sports team, Run Club meets up weekly to jog the seven miles around the perimeter of campus.

  (Led by a reedy second-year and some environmentalists, all of whom wear those five-toe shoes that are, like, the dorkiest things ever—and wouldn’t they give you a serious toe wedgie?)

  • GUILD: Quare’s oldest and only theater troupe.

  (Run by Dean Elliot, she of the perfect hair and awesome glasses. Featuring, inexplicably enough, intellectuals, artists, activists, environmentalists, and everyone in between)

  To: Wink DelDuca

  From: Theodora Sweet

  Subject: Re: Miss Tulip

  September 12, 9:49 p.m.

  Wink,

  Thanks for the update. I’m obviously just as upset as you are at Miss Tulip’s disappearance. As much as I hate chalking up my decision to study photography at Stanford (undeclared as of now, but I’ll keep you posted) to a white man’s gaze of a female subject, it really was Elijah, and the entire blog, that made taking photos seem like something I’d want to spend the rest of my life doing.

  I mean, I get that Miss T kind of has a cult following—not to say that we haven’t spoken to people in, like, mainstream Kansas and Utah who also read it religiously—but like you said, she touched us Nymphettes especially deep. And it’s not even just the vintage clothes! I wear the first thing my hands touch in the morning, as you can probably tell. It’s the whole thing. You just don’t see things that are so goddamn tender anymore.

  She was an empowered muse, that’s for damn sure. God, I need to stop before I get too emotional in my ecology lecture.

  Anyway, just writing to say thanks for persevering, and let me know what—if anything—you find.

  Deuces,

  Thee

  Cora Shimizu-Stein

  95 Wall Street, Apt. 33A

  New York, NY 10005

  September 12

  Dear Cora,

  Remember me?

  Can you check with India to make sure she’s getting my letters? I know we agreed that she would keep everyone else in the loop re: Quare, but something tells me she’s shirking her duties. (Could Jasper, that idiot from Dalton, be to blame?)

  Anyway, I thought I’d write to you. I miss you, and something exciting has happened. I’m imagining you reading this while on the elliptical at the gym in your apartment’s basement. Or maybe you’re in the steam room? (You’re honestly the only person in the world who’d read a letter in the steam room
—and that’s exactly why I miss you so much.)

  Yesterday morning I did something impulsive. I went to the farm to milk cows with Lucy (one of my neighbors) and Fern (another first-year).

  The farm is actually quite nice. It’s up past the orchard, and all the trees are full of fruit. You pick it off, just like that, and because they don’t use pesticides, you can bite into an apple after just rubbing it a little bit. I felt a little bit awkward with Fern and Lucy, because they’re both so gentle and well-meaning. Fern is dewy and soft-spoken with a long blond braid that she circles twice around her head and dots with daisies, and Lucy is a nudist who’s nuts about animals. I mean, I’m a vegan 90 percent of the time (you know how I feel about my pastries, obviously), but I feel like I appreciate animals more in the abstract—I believe of course, that killing them for meat is murder, but that I don’t necessarily have to roll around in mud with pigs. I feel big around both of them; maybe that’s it. Not so much physically, but like I take up too much room or have too many things.

  Once you get to the actual farm, there are some pastures with cows. Have you ever seen a cow in person before? Stupid question—of course you haven’t. They’re huge and very nuzzly, with pink nostrils covered in stubbly hair. I didn’t want to stop petting them. And there are goats, too. They’re much smaller, with wiry hair and little horns, and they bit our hands through their fences. Not hard, really, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

  It was my first time at the farm, if you must know. When the rest of the class went up for a tour, I complained of cramps. But I wasn’t even lying! Much.

  When we were done milking the cows—I wasn’t crazy about the idea of getting my hands dirty, so I just watched—Lucy, Fern, and I took off down the orchard, breaking into a run toward the bottom of the hill, because simply walking down it is nearly physically impossible. The sun was up, there was a nice breeze, and things suddenly didn’t seem quite so bad.

  The two of them ran directly into the two showers, so I had to wait on the small step in front of the communal bathroom. From my perch I watched the lights go on in people’s cabins, one by one. Before long, Althea, my across-the-street neighbor, emerged from her cabin up the hill and took her morning piss on the grass, smiling up at the rising sun. (I’m sure India’s told you about the peeing outside thing. At this point, it doesn’t even faze me.)