She stopped again to think, her cheek resting on her fist, drumming the end of her pencil on the leather tabletop, letting her eyes roam around the dim figures in the wall murals: Robin Hood, Joan of Arc, Beauty and the Beast—and Peter Pan, her favorite. Remembering how she used to talk to them when she was younger, how she told those palely brooding Treehouse companions all kinds of secrets, she picked up the notebook and read what she had written out loud. They seemed attentive, but when she had finished, they didn’t, for some strange reason, offer any advice or criticism. Smiling—ironically—at her own childish behavior, she went back to drumming on the tabletop—and thinking.
Except—he does make his characters so you can see them—even if you don’t like them—and you do know where they are and how they got there—I guess he does write better than a lot of the students at Morrison—which isn’t saying much.
At the top of the next page she wrote:
TIERNEY LAURENT.
Taller than Ms. O—and a lot fatter—and almost as mean as Gary—acts angry all the time—sneers at everything—even at Gary Greene—after he read his story, she said it was boring—what she actually said was something like, “The first seven or eight massacres were just your average B-movie borrr-ring, but after that it was, I mean, what we’re talking here is major ZZZs.” But then she looked at Ms. O and said, “Oh, yeah. CONSTRUCTIVE! Something constructive about old G.G. That’s a hard one. Oh, yeah. The icky green blood. I really flashed on that icky green blood. You got a really big imagination there, dude.” Then she sneered again and said, “How’s that for constructive?”
Ms. O asked Tierney to read her story next, but she didn’t—said she’d forgotten to bring it—and Ms. O said okay but she better not forget next time, or else—and Tierney said, “Or else what?”—and Ms. O smiled and said, “Don’t ask. You wouldn’t want to know,” and Tierney said, “Arrghh” and pretended to be terrified.
I don’t think Tierney Laurent is dumb—definitely not dumb—just mean—and really angry about something.
And then there was Wendy Davis.
WENDY DAVIS.
She is a phony—always pretending—nicey-nice to everybody—when the teacher is around at least—that’s probably how she got to be on the student council—by pretending she likes everyone—she didn’t read today either because there wasn’t time after Alex Lockwood.
ALEX LOCKWOOD.
The strangest person I’ve ever met—moves in a funny way—like a robot with mixed-up wiring—he’s so afraid of Gary Greene he hides in the cupboard—and then he gets up in front of Greene and everybody and sings a crazy song—about dorks and weirdos—after Gary called him a weirdo—after he called Alex and me both weirdos.
Libby stopped writing then and began to drum again on the tabletop, beating out a definite rhythm this time, to a song that she halfway remembered.
That song—it was to real music—something I’ve heard before. And he must have just made up the words in a flash—with them all staring at him—I wish I could remember all of the words—I wish I knew how he did it.
He read his story, too, the parody of Cujo. It was about a rabid chihuahua that had a bunch of people trapped in a car for years and years. The people in the car kept getting older and older—the little boy grew up and went through puberty, and the chihuahua was still drooling on the windshield and eating parts of the car, like the tires and the windshield wipers. Everybody laughed—even G.G. and Tierney.
She thought for a while about Alex’s story and how he had read it in a dramatic, quivering voice, like a parody of someone reading a horror story. And everyone HAD laughed. Everyone. Even Libby—at least a little. You couldn’t help it.
What did he mean when he said he couldn’t write?
On the next page she wrote:
I didn’t have to read today—there wasn’t time because Alex’s story was so long—that was the best thing about it, in fact—but there were other good things about it—I mentioned some of them when Ms. O asked me to critique it—I said that I thought it was good how you got to know all the people who were shut in the car by the way they acted and the things they said, instead of just being told about them—and I thought he made the funny parts funnier because you halfway expected them after a while—like the way the dog kept eating another part of the car. Ms. O said she thought my critique was very good—and when I finished talking, someone said, “Yeah”—like they were agreeing with me—I’m not sure who said it but it sounded like it might have been Tierney—and right after that the period was over.
Libby went back then and read over what she had written several times before she wrote in very large letters—
SO—
Then she drummed on the table and doodled stick figures up and down the margin of the page and checked out Peter Pan to see if he had anything to offer. At last she turned the pencil around and hurriedly wrote one last paragraph.
I’m sure it will be terrible—horrible—unbearable—next time when I’ll have to read for sure, but this time—this time, it wasn’t so bad after all.
And later, after the family had gotten through scolding her for coming home so late and worrying everybody, and then hugging and kissing her to make sure she knew they weren’t really angry, they finally got around to asking her about the writers’ workshop and how it had turned out. And that’s just what she told them.
“It wasn’t so bad after all,” she said, and the funny thing was, it wasn’t really a lie.
7
All through the following week, after that first meeting of the writers’ workshop, Libby tried to prepare for the next Wednesday, when she would surely be the first one called on to read.
First and foremost she had, of course, practiced reading her story out loud. At various times during the week she read it with various amounts of dramatic expressiveness—sometimes to an empty room, at others to Goliath, who was always a quiet and attentive audience, and once even, in a humorous and ironical way, to her poor old fading Treehouse companion, Peter Pan.
She had also gone over in her mind the things Mercedes had told her about how actors prepared themselves for their entrances on opening night, in order to prevent attacks of stage fright—by eating candy or a spoonful of honey a few minutes before curtain time for a quick rush of energy and then by breathing steadily and very deeply just before going on stage.
So when the time came, and the day and hour finally arrived, she felt that she was ready, or as ready as she was going to be. Arriving early again in the reading lab, she took her place in the farthest desk, took out her manuscript, opened it, and went on breathing deeply, while quickly munching a half-dozen jelly beans.
Ms. O arrived right after the bell rang. She smiled at Libby, said hello, and then sat down and began to go through some papers. Libby went on breathing deeply. Alex arrived a few minutes later, but the rest of them were very late that day, especially Tierney. Since Libby had begun the deep-breathing exercise as soon as recess started, she had been doing it for quite a long time by then, and it was just after G.G. arrived that she noticed that she was feeling strangely dizzy.
Something seemed to be spinning inside her head, and sections of Ms. O kept drifting back and forth as if she were on an out-of-focus TV screen—the wide cat-eyes drifting one way while the smiling mouth wavered off in another direction. It was an odd sensation, and Libby might have found it unnerving if she hadn’t been a little too woozy to give it serious consideration.
But at last Tierney Laurent lunged through the door, slouched across the room, and collapsed into her seat, and Ms. O called the workshop to order. Sure enough, as soon as she had finished making a few pointed remarks about tardiness, she turned to look at Libby. Still feeling as if the top of her head wasn’t quite connected to the rest of her, Libby tried to force her eyes to focus and her mouth to smile. But she must have looked as strange as she felt, because after a moment the teacher turned away—to Wendy Davis.
“Wendy,” she said.
“Are you ready to share your masterpiece with us today?”
Wendy’s story, which was neatly bound and covered with a book jacket made of shiny pink cloth, was called “Robin in Pink.” Libby probably would have groaned, silently of course, if she hadn’t been feeling so light-headed. It sounded like the type of story that was all about teenage girls and their boyfriends and dates and parties, and what they wore to their dates and parties, and how they finally got the boy they wanted and the clothes they wanted and became the most popular girls in school. There were a lot of books like that in the school library, and Libby had tried a few of them—and found them boring. She felt her lips twitch. Borrrr-ing, she thought. I mean, we’re talking major ZZZZs.
Wendy opened her neatly bound book, smiled at everybody, tossed back her pretty, sun-streaked hair, and bent over the first page. And as Libby prepared to listen, closing her own manuscript, tucking one foot up under her and leaning forward on her elbows, the dizziness gradually faded away.
In a clear, unhurried voice Wendy read:
“ ‘Robin in Pink,’ by Wendy Davis.
“When the phone rang that Saturday morning, Robin Whitney just knew it was for her. Afterward she thought that it had probably been ESP, although her parents might have said it was only the law of averages. According to her parents, when the phone rang at the Whitneys’ residence, it was for Robin nine times out of ten.”
Wendy looked around at the group, her smile inviting them to be amused. No one seemed to be, but Libby found her lips returning the smile before she had time to decide not to. Wendy went on reading:
“But this time Robin sensed something was different. Somehow the moment the phone rang she knew something was wrong. Something important. And sure enough. The caller was her best friend, Heather, and the moment Robin said hello, Heather shouted into her ear, ‘Have you heard about last night at the mall?’
“ ‘No,’ Robin said. ‘What about last night at the mall?’ ”
“ ‘Jason was there with that new girl, Penny Johnson.’ ”
Libby tucked up the other foot and settled her chin on her fists. So far it was just about what she’d expected. The rest of the story was pretty predictable, too. Robin’s boyfriend, Jason, was interested in another girl, and Robin would have to work out a way to get him back. Big surprise.
Wendy went on reading in her clear, steady student-leader voice about her heroine’s tears and anger, and then, just as Libby had foreseen, about her PLAN to get her boyfriend away from the new girl. The PLAN centered around a big school dance. Robin was going to go to the dance wearing a sexy dress that would make her look so glamorous that Jason would forget all about the other girl. But then Robin’s old grandmother made a dress for Robin to wear to the dance, a pink dress that Robin hated. Robin told her mother she wouldn’t wear the dress, and they had a big fight.
The dialogue was good, particularly the fight between Robin and her mother, and the characters seemed pretty real, but the ending was as predictable as the rest of it. The grandmother came down with a serious illness, and Robin decided she would wear the pink dress after all, for her grandmother’s sake. And then, of course, the boyfriend loved the dress and the moment he saw Robin wearing it, he forgot all about the other girl.
“Well,” Ms. O said, after Wendy said, “The End,” and closed the pink book. “Who would like to comment first?”
Gary Greene made a gagging noise. Ms. O’s eyes went fiery, and she was taking a deep breath, when he turned the noise into a cough. He went on coughing for several seconds and then held his throat and gasped. “Sorry. Bad cough, isn’t it. You want me to comment first? Ooo-kay! Something constructive. Let’s see.”
Mugging a frantic expression with his lips pulled wide and his eyes rolling, he looked around the room as if he were asking for someone to come to the rescue.
“Constructive,” he said. “Okay. Got it. The length. I liked the length of the story. For a story of that type it was just the right length. Not too long. That’s all the comments I got. Okay?”
Tierney Laurent had raised her hand and was shaking it hard. When Ms. O finished staring at G.G. with threatening eyes, she looked at Tierney, hesitated, and then turned on to Alex Lockwood.
“Alex,” she said. “Do you have any constructive suggestions for Wendy?”
Alex Lockwood squirmed, twitched his shoulders, shook his head, and then nodded it. He looked at Wendy and then at Ms. O and back again. “Well,” he said finally. “I think it wasn’t confusing or anything. I mean, you knew what was going on all the time.” He paused. “Of course, you pretty much also knew what was going to happen next. I guess that’s what my suggestion would be. It was a well-written story, but maybe it could use some surprises. I mean maybe she could add something that would really surprise the reader.” He stopped and thought a moment, and then his crazy grin jiggled across his face. “Like maybe Jason could like the dress so much that he falls in love with the grandmother—or something.”
Wendy was looking down at her pink book, running one finger up and down the spine. Tierney Laurent had raised her hand again and was shaking it so hard that the spiky ends of her pink hair were quivering. “Mizzo,” she kept saying. “Mizzo, call on me.”
Ms. O looked at her doubtfully for a moment before she said, “Yes, Tierney?”
“I’ve got a lot of constructive comments,” Tierney said. “Like G.G. said, the length was good. And I liked the pink cover a lot. And the way it had a title and characters and a beginning and an end. I particularly liked the way it had a beginning and end.” She stopped and grinned. “It was just all the stuff in between that was dumb.”
Peeking through her hair, Libby saw that Wendy’s almost constant smile had disappeared. She looked hurt and surprised at the same time, like a slapped puppy or one of Gillian’s cats that had just been stepped on.
Libby raised her hand. She didn’t actually do it on purpose. It simply happened too quickly to think about, and when Ms. O nodded in her direction, she spoke quickly too.
“I think the story was very well written. Particularly the dialogue. Like the fight Robin had with her mother. That was very real-sounding dialogue. It sounded like—like …” They were all looking at her and grinning. At least G.G. and Tierney were grinning. Libby’s voice dwindled away to a whisper as she went on, “—like real people having a real fight.”
“Yes,” Ms. O said, “I quite agree. “I think that Wendy’s story shows a great deal of writing talent. And while some of us might not be particularly interested in her subject matter, I think she handled the material very well.” She glanced at the clock. “We’re going to have to move right along if we’re to finish hearing the other two stories. Libby, will you be next?”
Libby wasn’t shaking as she opened her manuscript to the first page. Either she had simply gotten used to the idea or her anger about the comments on Wendy’s work had burned away her fear. Her voice was only a little quavery as she began to read:
“ ‘Rainbow in the Dust,’ by Libby McCall.”
“The sun was low and the light was fading fast. Only a hazy glow slanted across the valley that stretched endlessly ahead of them. The people walked slowly, their heads bent low, their feet shuffling on the hard, dry earth. The only sound that rose above the dusty whisper of their feet was the occasional whimper of a child and now and then the hiss and thud of a centurion’s whip.”
She glanced up through her hair. They were listening. She took a deep breath and went on, her voice surer now.
“Too exhausted to fear even the cruel whip, Lucas trudged and stumbled forward, no longer aware of anything except that Pythia was still walking beside him, and that—”
Just at that moment the intercom squawked, and then Mr. Shoemaker’s voice came on, announcing a change in the afternoon bus schedule. Someone, Libby wasn’t sure who, made a groaning noise, and someone else, obviously G.G., muttered a four-letter word under his breath. And Tierney was sneering again.
Libby felt
her face muscles contracting as if in anticipation of a blow. Although, on second thought, the groan and the sneer and even G.G.’s comment might just have been reactions to Mr. Shoemaker’s interruption instead of comments on what she had read.
When the intercom clicked off, they all looked at Libby—and she went on reading. She read the part about the caravan spending the night among the ruins of the temple and how Pythia saw a vision of a beautiful winged horse. And even though Ms. O had said there would be a time limit of ten minutes, she went on reading until the caravan reached the slave market in Rome.
As soon as she stopped, G.G. started to say his favorite word. He got as far as “Shhh—” when Ms. O caught his eye. His voice trailed away, and then he grinned and started over. “Shhh-oot,” he said. “You didn’t write that yourself, did you, kid?” He looked at Tierney. “What do you want to bet that famous grandfather of hers wrote it for her?”
“Yeah,” Tierney said. “Your grandfather write it for you?”
Libby felt a chill tighten her throat. It had happened before, making her voice come out in a ridiculous squeak. Raising her head, she looked at Ms. O, asking for rescue. The teacher could tell them she’d written the story herself. Some of it had been written in the classroom for creative-writing assignments, and Ms. O had seen those parts in rough draft. But the teacher only smiled and nodded. “Yes?” she said, making the word a question, as if she, too, were wondering if Libby had had help.
Suddenly anger welled up, flooding her cheeks and melting the icy grip on her throat. There was no squeak in her voice when she said, “Well, if my grandfather wrote it, it must have been his ghost. He’s been dead for ten years.”
Libby on Wednesday Page 5