by Julia Scott
Unaware of the fundamental murkiness of future, Marcy told anyone who would listen that she was going to grow up to be a ballerina. And as if in preparation for that hopeful linear advancement from desire to fulfillment, her parents enrolled her in tap dance lessons at age four. She was always eager to enrich us with a demonstration of her most recent dance lesson. It wasn’t an uncommon scene to find her somewhere on the road home from school, in the center of a crowd of children, dancing on a patch of a neighbor’s property, swiveling her formless hips, slowly arching her valiant miniature arms above her head like a the delicate unfolding of a Japanese paper-fan.
When K and I were six years old we joined the tiny-tot football league. Our team scrimmaged each Saturday morning and Marcy would be on the sideline, an energetic maestro in bold huzzah, orchestrating the corps of six-year old cheerleaders.
The year that we were supposed to graduate from Washington Elementary School, a stranger abducted Marcy from a local Foster Freeze parking lot on her way home from school. Three weeks later her remains were found by a sanitation employee during his usual collection rounds in a local alley. She had been sexually assaulted and butchered, swaddled in six separate bedspreads, wrapped in trash bags, then dumped in two garbage cans. Identical notes tied to each of the six bags read: “Six is the number of man.”
Throughout Washington Elementary and Luther Burbank Junior High School years, K and I were closer than brothers and often confused as such. Being next-door neighbors made our daily frolic conducive to the adventurous bonding of boyhood. Fishing at the local creek. Sleeping overnight in a tent near the quarry. The mutual loss of our playmate also cemented our unity.
I have for some time now toyed with timeframes and fragments of early conversations with K in order to find and amplify any nuance that might suggest or determine the genesis of his surrender to a renegade deprivation as a combat technique against unrestrained grief. My recollections take me back to a choking colloquy on football bleachers several years after Marcy’s death. That particular sophomore afternoon hinted at an alteration in the wind.
We sat apart from our teammates, uniformed in full gear and waiting for the coaches to arrive to our practice from some emergency that had delayed them. To a stranger we would have appeared to them as two young gladiators pondering strategies for the arena—and the stranger would have been partially correct.
“Do you miss Marcy?”
There was an uncharacteristic bullying insinuation in the way he asked the question and I remember feeling uncomfortably challenged when I answered him.
“Of course I miss her.”
He paused and looked at the team playbook tossed beside us. His tense edge withered.
“It’s been five years since she died and something bad is happening to me. I feel like I got some malevolent virus growing in me.”
His parents were professors so his elocution often resounded with maturity.
I reveled in the shift of attention, secretly reluctant not to have my grief be the focal point of conversation. I half-heartedly placated him.
“C’mon K, you don’t really mean that.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t dismiss me. This is very serious and complicated. I miss her very much, it’s just that, well, lately I find myself concentrating for hours exclusively on my private pain, not even thinking about how it is her loss that brought on the pain in the first place. It’s become about me only.”
He was grinding his teeth as he stared through his helmet, mesmerized by a distant point in the horizon.
“Her loss hurts me so much that I sometimes wish that I didn’t have the memory of her at all.”
A few moments of silence passed between us and he picked up his thought again.
“Nobody could have stopped her killer’s urges or his sickness, his evil, but in my mind, and I know this is gonna sound horrible, I wish it would have happened to someone else, anybody else, Shelly Longing in homeroom for example, any girl but our Marcy. And I wish this sometimes in the dark moments so that her killer could have spared me, as much as her, the misery.”
He choked and reached a fist through his helmet, smearing tears across his cheeks. My throat constricted.
He mumbled, “Did you hear what I just said? Shelly Longing? She didn’t ever do anything to me. It’s wrong for me to think that way. Wrong, wrong wrong, and I’m simply no good anymore. I’m polluted with this virus-like grief.”
The integrity of his remorse provoked a deep sympathy in me and for a Spartan moment I fought back tears.
“That’s not true. You’re very good K. C’mon, this is really tough on both of us because we were so close to her. You’ve got to quit being so hard on yourself.”
He ignored me and recovered deftly.
“You don’t understand the evil implications of my thinking. When I substitute Shelly for Marcy that already puts me on some continuum with the serial killer who killed Marcy. My flagrant selfishness projects the gruesome act on an innocent person and this kind of insane vision frightens me. My instinct is becoming demented.”
“You’ve got to stop torturing yourself with that sort of thinking. Listen to me K, she was too good for this world so the gods took her to be with them. That’s what I believe and that belief comforts me whenever I miss her.”
“I hate that man, and god damn it, I hate this. It’s like I need to insulate myself from too much suffering. I don’t want to know any more victims.”
He rose crying and mumbling to either God or himself, “I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this.”
He picked up the playbook, swooned in incoherent shame, and in almost comical ambulatory leisure he meandered across the field to the locker room, thus ending his promising athletic career. My friend’s imagination was mounting Elijah’s same chariot, readying itself for delirious empyrean heights. And behind would remain a human shell and mocking jape, cruel evidence of the gods’ attempt at high comedy.
GILLIAN FLYNN
TROUBLE AT OSAGE LAKE HIGH
GILLIAN FLYNN is the author of Sharp Objects, Dark Places, and the number-one New York Times bestseller Gone Girl, which has sold more than 6 million copies worldwide. She is also the screenwriter for the film adaptation of Gone Girl. Flynn lives with her family in Chicago, where she may or may not be hoarding every single original paperback of Sweet Valley High ever.
In junior high, the primary topic on my mind was figuring out How to Be a Cool Teen. I know this because in the same ancient Garfield Trapper Keeper in which I unearthed “Trouble at Osage Lake High,” I found a self-improvement list titled “Changes.” Some useful entries: “Hair: Buy and experiment with mousse.” “Conversation: Think of interesting things to talk about. Listen to friends’ conversations. Practice.”
Yes, I was a painfully shy kid, and so I looked for guidance in books. Specifically, that soapy staple of the ’80s: the Sweet Valley High series, which beckoned readers to follow “the continuing story of the Wakefield twins—their laughter, heartaches, and dreams.” It was basically Dynasty in high school. Actually it was better, because it starred good and evil twins. (Is there anything more satisfying than good and evil twins? We’ll answer this question shortly.) Jessica Wakefield was the wild one (on the illustrated cover, her blond hair is moussey-loose over her jean jacket) and Elizabeth was the nice twin (her blond hair clipped back in sensible barrettes). I was obsessed with Sweet Valley High—reading the books wasn’t just fun, it was obligatory prep work. What I learned from them was that my high school years would revolve around cheerleading, being beautiful, betraying friends, and fighting over boys. Cool!
Naturally, they influenced my burgeoning career as a writer. (Was I a “Jessica” or an “Elizabeth”? The fact that I was in eighth grade and launching my own book series probably answers that question.) So, in answer to the earlier query: Is there anything better than good and evil tw
ins? Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: good, evil, and goodish-evil triplets! Sit back and enjoy “the continuing story of the Lawley triplets—their bickering, kissing, and . . . German lessons.” With my apologies.
—G.F.
“Tru! Tru, don’t walk away when I’m talking to you.” Tru Lawley swirved around, a cascade of black curls swirling about her shoulders.
“Geez, Hope, sometimes you sound just like my mom.”
“Your not getting out of it that easy, Tru. You were kissing my boyfriend, remember? Any particular reason?”
“Hope, your precious, darling boyfriend was kissing me, I mean he practically jumped me!”
“And, of course, you didn’t discourage him.” Hope Wexler’s green eyes sparkled with sarcasm.
“Hope, who are you going to believe: your boyfriend of two weeks or your friend of well, birth! Talk to Matt if you want to get to the bottom of it—I don’t know why he kissed me.” Tru’s dark brown eyes lowered, spilling tears down her pink cheeks.
“I’m sorry Tru, I guess I just wanted to hide myself as to what Matt’s really like.” Hope put a comforting arm around her friend. “Now you better hurry or you’ll be late. I’ll talk to you at lunch.”
“He just wouldn’t stop, Hope,” Tru started for German. “Of course he didn’t have any objections from me,” she thought, a sly look replacing the cherubic smile she’d worn seconds ago. Tru daydreamed her way through German, very aware of the fact that Matt Davenport, football star and resident hunk, was paying much more attention to her than the lesson.
Midway through chapter seven, a piece of paper was tossed her way. WHY DID YOU KISS ME? was scrawled in big blue letters. You kissed me, lied Tru, feeling a small pang of guilt. But how much harm could one little kiss do? Matt hadn’t exactly pulled away. The bell rang, and Tru tried to hurry on but Matt caught up with her in the hall.
“I kissed you? That’s a good one.” Tru tried to charm her way out of the potentially dangerous situation.
“Well you know Matt, the good guy image of yours WAS getting a bit boring.” She stroked his hair. “Besides, it wasn’t planned, just one of those impulsive things I do. I mean, your too goodlooking for your own good.” He dark eyelashes fluttered at him, she leaned carefully against her locker.
Matt slowly smiled. “Tru? You know what?”
“What?” She smiled seductively.
“Tru, sometimes you make me sick.” Matt Davenport walked on, probably looking for Hope.
Tru’s cheeks lit up in a streak of red. She let out a stream of curses as she looked through her untidy locker.
“Hey, Lawley, I need to talk to you.” Three beautiful girls turned around simultaneously. Cory Overly grinned. “Sorry, I just need to talk to one out of the set. Kit, the Drama Department is deciding on the musical for this year and they wanted your vote. Said to stop in after school.”
Cory smiled tenderly at Kit. He kissed her on the nose. Then lowered to kiss her on the lips. Linzee Lawley clapped.
“What is this? A family peepshow?” Cory grinned. “Boy, dating Kit Lawley keeps me busy enough but I can’t wait till I get to date Kit, Linzee, and Tru Lawley. I can just hear it now: who are you dating Cory? Oh, just the Lawley triplets.” His eyes sparkled mischievously.
“Come on Romeo,” said Kit. “Let’s get lunch.”
Though it was common to call Kit, Linzee and Tru “The Lawley Triplets,” they could hardly be grouped into a nice neat category. It was like comparing a quiet spring day, a breezy afternoon, and a stormy night. Linzee Lawley was mild, sensible, cheerful and liked to keep things simple. She possessed all-American good looks: wavy chin-length gold-brown hair, light green eyes, and a slender 5’4” figure that was shown off beautifully by her cheerleading outfit. She was easy to talk to, a fact which gave her great status at Osage Lake High.
Kit was outspoken, independent, charming, and interested in everything. She was president of the Drama Club, was a photographer for the yearbook and star of Osage Lake High’s track team. She had sparkling baby blue eyes, straight shoulder length wheat-blonde hair and a tan toned 5’6” figure that was put to advantage by the short skirts she loved to wear.
Then there was the not-so-mild Tru. Tru loved attention and was always at the top of the list of “A-Rank” girls at Osage (often just tying with, instead of beating her sisters, to her frustration.) Tru was daring, wild, and usually behind and mischief occurring at the high school. She usually managed to get everything she wanted—a fact that had a lot to do with her spectacular looks. She was 5’8” with jet black curls spilling almost to the middle of her back. Dark amber eyes were framed by long black lashes. She had a peaches and cream complexion and a dazzling smile—used to its full advantage, of course. Right now though, Tru’s lips were in a becoming pout.
“Okay, Tru, spill it,” Linzee Lawley’s voice was light but concerned.
“Matt Davenport is such a jerk!”
“What’d he do?”
“Trust me Linzee, he’s just a jerk.”
“Could it perhaps have anything to do with that incredible kiss earlier?” Linzee’s voice dripped with disapproval.
“That was as much his fault as it was mine. More!” Snapped Tru.
“Tru, come on, I saw you before you kissed him, you were looking for him. The whole thing was planned, it was obvious!”
Tru knew she was cornered. “Well come on Linzee, do you think Matt and Hope go together? I mean, she is pretty and she’s one of my best friends but they just aren’t right for each other.”
“One, that decision should be left up to Matt and Hope. Two, I’d bet you haven’t even thought about wether they’re right for each other—I bet you just saw something you liked and went after it. Did you even think of the effect it could have on Hope?”
“Well nothing happened, so forget it!”
“I just don’t understand how you can do this to your friend.”
“Damn you, Linzee! You never even listen to my side!” Tru stormed away, colliding into Ivy Webber, a quiet sophmore. “Watch it!”
Ivy mumbled an apology, then sighed. It seemed the only time someone like Tru Lawley talked to her was to tell her to get out of the way. Then Ivy saw Linzee sitting beside her own locker, her eyes full of tears. She was going to keep on walking, what would she say to Linzee Lawley, a beautiful, popular cheerleader? But something about the girl made Ivy change her mind.
“Uh, Linzee, are you OK?” She asked hesitantly. Linzee looked up, surprised.
“Yeah, it’s just my sister, she really has a temper.” Linzee smiled behind her tears, she sun coming out after the rain. Ivy was surprised to hear Linzee tell her the whole story unhesitantly.
“Well,” Ivy started, “I don’t think the argument was your fault at all.”
“But Tru was right, I really didn’t give her the benefit of the doubt.”
“Well she can’t stay mad long,” Ivy suggested.
“Tru will either come up to me after school like nothing happened or she won’t talk to me for weeks. But I’ll worry later. It’s one extreme or the other with her.”
STEVE ALMOND
TO THE MEN AT WORK OUTSIDE MY WINDOW
STEVE ALMOND is the author of ten books of fiction and nonfiction, most recently the story collection God Bless America. His memoir Candyfreak was a New York Times bestseller. His short stories have appeared in the Best American and Pushcart anthologies. He lives outside Boston with his wife and their three kids, none of whom are bad poets. Yet.
I’m not sure where to begin. This poem is like a very serious cancer, or perhaps several cancers at once. Or maybe it’s my way of announcing that I deserve cancer. It’s hard to say anything definitive amid so many bad judgments.
Witness this narrative of cultural encounter in which the effete, lonely Bad Poet typecasts the working-class palookas i
n a manner that is at least as bigoted—more so, actually—than the targets of his princely consideration. Upon further review, this “poem” is not only self-aggrandizing and pretentious (hell, that’s just the color of my ink, folks) but demeaning and oddly homophobic. I’m just that good.
I do remember the episode that triggered this poem’s composition. I was around thirty-five, living in Somerville, Massachusetts, and trying to be a writer. I was lying in my bed, depressed, again, when a fleet of workers turned up to tear apart the backyard of the house I was renting. This was all being done at the behest of my landlord, a monumental American who blew through his mortgage loans with a dizzying and tender devotion to personal bankruptcy. Trucks he bought and canoes and boats and race cars whose monstrous flatulent engines he revved at all hours outside my bedroom, with its dark wainscoting and low beams.
Was there anything I might have said to these guys beyond the obvious? That I was lonely and inept, that I envied them their camaraderie, their masculine competence. That I viewed them as stand-ins for the brothers whom I had resented and pined for throughout my childhood. It was their fault (the brothers, the workmen) that I felt weak and effeminate and unworthy of love. It was their fault we destroyed one another. It’s always someone else’s fault. That’s the lesson history teaches the aggrieved, over and over.
“Is there nothing between us besides cocks?” That’s an illicit wish posing as an indignant question. But the Bad Poet has no access to the mysteries of his internal life, so he settles for bad jokes about classic rock and fake lyricism. It might even be okay to pity him, if he didn’t so obnoxiously assert pity as his birthright.