To: India Katz-Rosen
From: Cora Shimizu-Stein
Subject: Flora
April 12, 9:22 p.m.
India!!!
I’m practically panting with excitement. Do you remember that girl who was wearing the shirt that I thought was Flora, and you told me I was crazy?
Well, LOOK WHO’S CRAZY NOW. (Hint: not I.)
I was doing some homework at Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on Eighty-third and Third to avoid going back to my house this afternoon (my mom’s meeting with the whole legal team), and who walks in but THAT SAME GIRL? The Heathers one in the eighties shoulder pads and all the curly black hair just stacked on top of her head. We locked eyes—she’s superpretty, with this olive skin and really deep green eyes and a really long bony nose that just works—and I knew she recognized me, too. I looked down at her outfit, and sure enough, IT WAS ANOTHER FLORA SHIRT. This one was really unmistakable—the Jackie Kennedy outfit (you know, the nubby apricot dress with the matching apricot coat).
And then, right on her heels, before I could wave her over, walked in this Asian girl with ANOTHER Flora shirt under a striped cardigan. This one was Flora (now I’m positive, as you’ll see) in a red-and-white plaid skirt suit. WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON, right?
She clearly saw me staring, but she played it cool, asserting her dominance. The two of them ordered their coffees and pastries and chose a table not far from where I was sitting with my calc homework. I kept shooting them glances over the top of my computer. Something was telling me that this was key—that they knew something we didn’t about what happened to Flora.
I waited fifteen minutes. They took all these papers out of their briefcases (!) and laid them on the table. There were photos all over the pages, but I couldn’t really tell what they were of. When it was time, I took a deep breath, smoothed my skirt (how embarrassing that I was still in my Bowen uniform), and walked over to them with as much confidence as I could muster.
“Hi,” I said, holding out a hand. The Asian girl shook it hesitantly, but the one with all the hair just kind of stared at me. “I’m Cora Shimizu-Stein, and that’s my friend on your shirt.”
This certainly got their attention. They shot each other a glance that fell somewhere between terrified and excited. They seemed to be communicating telepathically.
“I’m Grace,” the Asian girl said.
“Wink,” said eighties McGee. She still didn’t shake my hand.
As soon as she said her name, I knew exactly who she was: she’s the wunderkind editor of that teen feminist magazine, Nymphette. She’s been profiled in The New Yorker and does interviews with, like, Mirth magazine.
“Maybe you’re confused,” Grace said. “These shirts are of Miss Tulip. You know? The website?”
It rang a bell. Remember what Flora wrote about in her letter, about that creepy blog Elijah had of her?
“Oh right,” I said. “Well, Miss Tulip is my best friend.”
They looked at me, unsure as to whether or not I was unhinged.
“What’s her name?” Wink asked. A challenge.
I hesitated. “Flora Goldwasser,” I said finally. I mean, it’s not like they’d know who she was, right?
Well, wrong.
They gaped at each other. Wink had finally lost her cool.
“Vending machine girl?” she said. Her voice was shaking all over the place.
I nodded.
“Your friend is Flora Goldwasser, vending machine girl, who’s also Miss Tulip.” Grace’s eyes were shooting around in her head. A few crumbs from her blueberry muffin shook off of her lips.
“Miss Tulip?” I asked.
Grace gaped at me. “MISS TULIP,” she practically screamed. “THE GIRL ON MY SHIRT. FEMINIST STYLE ICON.”
Oh right. This was all in the letter. To be honest, I didn’t really understand what they were so excited about—I mean, OBVIOUSLY Flora is a feminist style icon. So I just nodded and smiled.
“Wait, let me get your number.” Wink took out her phone and handed it to me. I typed it in. She texted me so I’d have hers, and then I left. They’re superdown to help us do something … no idea what yet.
Oh FUCK, I have to go—my sister’s crying. But call me. Something huge is happening!!!!
Core
To: Dean Elliot
From: Elijah Huck
Subject: Flora
April 12, 10:21 p.m.
Could you please just ask Flora to call me? I feel like she’d be more responsive if it came from you.
A few weeks ago, two deranged girls came to my APARTMENT. So it’s safe to say we need to talk.
To: Elijah Huck
From: Dean Elliot
Subject: Re: Flora
April 12, 10:53 p.m.
Dude,
I’ve been getting your messages and emails. I don’t really feel like talking to you, so I’m not planning to call you back anytime soon.
As to your request, that I force Flora to contact you and take ownership, here’s the deal: she HAS taken ownership. You’re the one who hasn’t. Call her yourself if you want to talk to her. It seems like you’re kind of used to getting other people, like your sister and maybe now even me, to fight your battles for you. Well, not anymore.
I care about Flora. We’ve been working closely on her play, which I’m fairly certain is going to win big at YIPA this year. To be honest, I don’t know why things fell apart with you and Flora, and I don’t really care. I’m all about Flora now.
I hope you figure your stuff out as best you can, but it’s not any more hers than it is yours. To be honest, what you guys had (have?) doesn’t even really have anything to do with this anymore. If that was over here, then this is over there. You dig?
Peace out,
Dean
Letter from Elijah
Flora Goldwasser
Pigeonhole 44
The Quare Academy
2 Quare Road
Main Stream, NY 12497
April 13
Flora,
I’m not really sure what’s going on, but I wanted to check in. I listened to the interview you gave on NPR, and I’m really proud of you—what you’re doing is awesome.
The other week, these two girls came to my apartment, and I think it had something to do with the radio piece, or something with one of the blogs. Now, I get that you’re not spreading this, so I can hardly blame you for that. But still, I’d hate for my reputation to be compromised because of that ridiculous piece in the Quare Times. I think we both understand that what happened between us was much different than a “fuck and duck,” whatever that even means. So I’d really appreciate your doing anything possible to contain these rumors.
Fondly,
Elijah
Attempt 14
Elijah Huck
245 West 107th Street
New York, NY 10025
April 15
Elijah,
I’m realizing more and more that the reason I feel sick when I think about you (and us) is that maybe I’m hungry. My insides feel scooped out like a pumpkin.
Or am I still too full, even after giving all this away?
There’s either not enough or too much inside of me—that’s what I’m trying to say. It’s not sex’s fault, per se. It’s not your fault (not entirely, I mean). It’s not my fault. I didn’t get pregnant. It wasn’t assault.
At what point did you start to actually like
And how exactly was it different—really, actually different—than a “fuck and duck”?
Flora Goldwasser
Pigeonhole 44
The Quare Academy
2 Quare Road
Main Stream, NY 12497
April 16
Dear Flora,
Did you get Mum and Nell’s wedding (oops, “celebration of love and commitment”) invitation? It’s absurd. I’ve met the woman only once, an
d she was so preoccupied with the Suze Orman special that we couldn’t have even a halfway decent conversation about her work. I was the one asking her the questions, prying answers out of her, for God’s sake—and which one of us is the future stepparent?
Can we sabotage, do you think? God knows Mum won’t listen to any of our reasons that Nell sucks (bad table manners, has no interest in us whatsoever, gives off serious bad energy), so I think our only option is to set fire to the park—that, or torch Mum herself (kidding, sort of). In any event, forget the vial of colored sand: I’m bringing coal.
Your sister,
Lael
To: all-staff
From: Wink DelDuca
Subject: everything!
April 17, 7:11 p.m.
Comrades,
Big things are happening here. In brief: it’s come to light in the past few days that Elijah Huck is Flora Goldwasser’s ex-paramour, and Flora Goldwasser (also known as our friend Vending Machine Girl) is none other than Miss Tulip herself.
It’s a lot to process, I know. A lot of you hold Elijah dear; a lot of you want to sleep with him; many of you see him as a voice (a snapshot?) of our generation. We editors—primarily Grace Wang and I—will be in New York this weekend, planning our next move. I’ve been in contact with Flora’s two best friends, and they’re great—more than willing to help out.
;)
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.
Lael Goldwasser
Harvard College
2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center
Cambridge, MA 02138
April 20
Lael,
Tonight after rehearsal for my play, we—the cast and some other friends—ate dinner on the couches in the dining hall, stir-fry and brown rice. After dinner we passed around some Quare cereal. Panda Poop and Mesa Sunrise, along with a stuffed bag of cruelty-free chocolate chips that we’d found smashed against the bottom of a ginormous tub of peanut butter. The Mesa Sunrise was as bland as ever, but with a few chocolate chips mixed in, it tasted just right, like cornflakes made for the purpose of transporting chocolate.
“I wonder if this stuff exists in the real world,” Agnes said, reaching into the box of Mesa Sunrise and taking a handful. “I’ve never once seen it in the grocery store.”
We agreed that Mesa Sunrise must be manufactured at Quare, in the basement of one of the ethical farmers’ houses.
“I used to hate this shit when we first came here,” said Agnes. “It grows on you, though, you know?”
“Just like the people,” I said before I could stop myself.
Agnes laughed. “You must have hated us so much at the beginning,” he said.
“No …” I said, but it was obvious I was lying, and everyone burst out laughing.
They kept asking me to tell them my first impressions, so I did. They screamed with laughter when I told them about being scared to death of Dean and what I’d done with the beanbag.
“What did you think of me?” I asked the group, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
They were silent for a while.
“I thought you were lovely,” Rae offered, “even though you looked like you wanted to melt into the walls.”
“There is one thing…. ” Benna said.
“Tell me!” I urged.
“There was a small rumor that you scrubbed the heels of your suede Steve Madden boots with a toothbrush every night in the fall,” she said quietly.
Another hush. Then we all screamed with laughter.
“That’s true!” I yelled. “I did do that!”
“I know,” Rae said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “I saw you in the bathroom, after you thought everyone had gone to bed, hunched over those damn boots with your toothbrush, like it was your job, or something.”
It was a bit much, thinking about it. All the work to preserve the shoes, the posters, the typewriter, even! Not to mention the collection of retro sunglasses in nine different colors lined up on my dresser to be color-coordinated with each outfit.
But preserving all that was one of the only things I could control.
It’s so crazy how far I’ve come.
Agnes walked me back to my A-frame. Oh, Lael. He’s so cute and Southern and gentlemanly in the least sexist (and sexiest) way ever. Juna wasn’t home, so I invited him inside. He stood awkwardly by the door. I bent down to pick up a pillow that had fallen off my bed, and when I straightened up, he was three inches closer to me than he’d been before. I jumped.
“Do you want to sit?” he asked, gripping the frame of my bed as though to stabilize himself.
I didn’t comment on the fact that he was inviting me to sit on my own bed.
“Oh. Okay.” I moved toward the bed. “What have you been thinking about?” I asked him, sitting down tentatively, only half-conscious of the fact that we were alone.
Agnes said, “I guess I’ve been thinking about all the types of privilege we don’t necessarily think about: good looks, intelligence, height. Have you ever read the study about tall people being more successful?”
“The taller of two presidential candidates usually wins,” I confirmed.
He laughed. And then, without any warning, he asked, “Can I kiss you?”
I gaped at him.
“Okay,” I said finally.
He leaned in toward me and kissed me. It was such a sweet, soft kiss. His lips were smooth and warm. I mentally scanned my body: okay armpits, bad bra, dingy but passable underwear. At least my legs were both shaved and moisturized. Thank God for ye old nightly routine. Some things you just don’t stop doing.
We kept kissing, perched on the edge of my bed.
Then Agnes’s hand kind of migrated toward my shoulders. He stroked up and down my arms and played with my hair a little bit. I ran MY fingers through HIS hair too, as much as I could considering his dreads, and then rested my hands lightly on his chest. His hands kept moving up and down. When they got to my boobs, they would stop for a second and then keep going, like they were waiting for my permission.
“Want to lie down?” Agnes asked.
I wasn’t completely sure I wanted to, but I agreed. So we lay on our sides, facing each other, and kissed some more. Agnes’s shirt came off, just like that. His chest was so smooth. I wondered if he was naturally hairless or if he’d shaved his chest. He kept tugging at the bottom of MY shirt, but I didn’t make any moves to take it off. When he finally started to tentatively pull it up from the bottom, I shot up and drew my legs into my chest. It was so weird, Lael. Agnes is superhot. And I’m into him. But I just couldn’t do it.
“Sorry,” he said, still horizontal. “I should have asked. And I forgot about Sam.”
“Sam?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Aren’t y’all a thing now?”
Did I mention that Agnes is from Georgia? I love that way too freaking much.
I laughed. “No way,” I said. “We’re platonic lovers.”
“Does that mean …?”
“We’re not physically attracted to each other, but we’re sort of in love,” I explained. “But we’re not exclusive, or anything.”
He mulled that one over.
“How is that different from being best friends?” he asked. “Aren’t friends just people you love, but don’t want to fuck?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it’s not that different. It’s all just language, anyway.”
He laughed. “You and my mom should collaborate.”
I smiled and looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
“So is this about … the thing … last semester?” he asked.
My chest got kind of tight.
“No,” I said. “Not really.”
He rolled over onto his side.
“It’s a
bout me,” I said. “I think I’m taking a break from sexual stuff. For, like, a minute.”
He laughed. “A minute,” he said. “Is that right?”
“It’s just that I’m still sort of getting used to my body again. And figuring out whom I’m attracted to, or whatever. Sorry.”
He struggled up to a seated position beside me.
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “Please. It’s okay.”
I rested my temple on my knee so he wouldn’t see the tears.
God, I need to get a grip. I don’t know, Lael. Am I crazy?
Flora
To: Sam Chabot
From: Flora Goldwasser
Subject: this morning
May 1, 9:43 a.m.
Why weren’t you at breakfast this morning??
I have huge news.
I fell asleep in Sinclaire’s cabin (where was Marigold? With you?). At an ungodly hour—maybe around six fifteen—someone knocked on the door.
I lifted my neck with considerable effort and strained my body to see who was at the door. It was Fern, in a long purple dress, probably on her way to breakfast, cradling an envelope and blinking fast.
“This was in my pigeonhole,” she said. “It’s addressed to you.”
I accepted it and squinted to read it, feeling my brain shift in my skull. It was from the Young Innovators’ Promise Awards: a thick white envelope with a fancy insignia in the upper left-hand corner. It was only then that I realized that it was MAY. I tore it open, letting the envelope fall to the floor, and slowly unfurled the letter.
Here’s what it said:
DEAR FLORA,
IT IS OUR GREAT PLEASURE TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU HAVE EARNED A GOLD MEDAL FOR YOUR PLAY, VENDING MACHINE, OR EVERYTHING MUST GO, IN THE YOUNG INNOVATORS’ PROMISE AWARDS OF THIS YEAR. YOU SHOULD BE VERY PROUD OF THIS ACCOMPLISHMENT. FOR 122 YEARS, THE AWARDS HAVE RECOGNIZED TEENAGERS LIKE YOU FROM ACROSS THE COUNTRY. BY WINNING AN INNOVATORS’ AWARD, YOU JOIN A LEGACY OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS SUCH AS JAMES BALDWIN, SYLVIA PLATH, LUCILLE CLIFTON, LENA DUNHAM, AND ELIZABETH BISHOP.
“What does it say?” Sinclaire was asking. “Flora, what does it say?”
I read it out verbatim.
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