The Princesses of Iowa

by M. Molly Backes

  The class quieted down a notch, staring at the clock, muscles tensed to leave the room the second the bell rang.

  “Your assignment for this week is to go to a literary reading!” She grabbed a pile of flyers from her desk and started handing them out. “All the second-year students at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop are giving readings this weekend, all over town! You have to find one to attend! That is your homework!”

  Tyler raised his hand. “What if we can’t make it?”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Mueller said, sounding pleased with herself. “Well! Then you can choose a Shakespearian sonnet and write a three-page paper explaining its meaning and importance in the literary canon!”

  The noise level rose again as the class started murmuring about how busy they were, it wasn’t fair, this was supposed to be a blow-off class.

  Randy crossed his arms. “Fuck that, dude, I’m not writing a paper.”

  “You shouldn’t have said anything,” I told Tyler. “She probably just made that assignment up right now.”

  “You should ask Paige’s partner if he has a date yet,” Randy said, punching Tyler in the hip.

  Chris looked back at the Freshman and laughed. “Hell yeah. Did you have fun with Barbra, Paige?”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “Dude,” Tyler said. “He was probably just using Paige to get close to Jake.”

  I glanced over at the Freshman, who probably considered himself to be so enlightened and high-minded and worldly and yet had no problem whatsoever immediately categorizing me as a stupid, spoiled ditz. Screw him, anyway. “Yeah, apparently the Spice Girls are getting back together with a new member,” I said. “Fairy Spice.”

  The guys erupted in laughter. “Fairy Spice! That’s awesome!”

  From across the room, I thought I saw the Freshman wince, but his face went blank again so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it.

  Thursday morning, I was running late thanks to my mother’s morning inspection — as the weeks ticked down to the homecoming vote, she was ramping up her scrutiny of my outfits, hair, makeup, and posture — and by the time I got to our table, my usual place had been taken by some junior girl from student council. Next to her, Geneva sat in Lacey’s spot. Our group had been gathering at the same tables every morning since sophomore year, to finish up homework, catch up on any gossip that might have occurred overnight, and delay the inevitable moment when we’d have to submit ourselves to yet another day of classes. Jake patted his lap and I perched on his knee, glaring at the juniors. Who did they think they were? “Someone should tell them not to turn the spray tan setting all the way to Oompa-Loompa,” I muttered.

  Jake followed my gaze and laughed. “Is someone cranky this morning?” He nibbled at my neck and I smiled in spite of myself. “Anyway, look at the bright side.”

  “What’s that?” I asked suspiciously.

  “If they get any oranger, Nikki will eat them, and you can have your seat back.” He pretended to chomp down on my shoulder. I laughed and bit him on the arm, and soon we were fighting and laughing like idiots.

  Geneva called, “Get a room, you two!”

  Just to spite her, I kissed Jake more passionately than was probably appropriate in a public setting. He didn’t seem to mind. “I really hate her,” I said when I came up for air. “Why isn’t Lacey keeping her in check? Where is she, anyway?”

  Jake shrugged. “I think she had a rough night last night. Her mom —”

  The bell rang, cutting him off. He stood abruptly and I slid off his lap. “What about her mom? Did you talk to her last night?”

  All around us, people were yelling and laughing and shoving one another. “It’s a long story, and I have to run. I’ll tell you at lunch, okay?” He kissed me fast and hurried off toward the math wing. Sighing, I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed the other way.

  My first-period class was a sleeper we called Contemptible American History. Mr. Silva wasn’t at his desk when I walked in, and I surveyed the room for signs of what the period would hold. No TV, so we weren’t watching a movie, but if we were lucky, Mr. Silva might get sidetracked by stories about his time in Vietnam, and the creepy kids who loved guns would keep asking him questions until he forgot all about his lesson plans, and the rest of us wouldn’t have to listen at all.

  The class was rowdy with gossip. “I heard she had a total breakdown, freaked out, screamed at Dr. Coulter, and stormed out!”

  “No, my mom knows her doctor’s sister, and she says it’s a brain tumor.”

  “Dude, I heard it was, like, a broken uterus.”

  “You moron, you can’t break your uterus.”

  I leaned across the aisle to Elizabeth Carr, a pretty girl who was in creative writing with me. “Who has a broken uterus?”

  She laughed and adjusted her glasses. “Mrs. Mueller, I guess. I’m pretty sure you can’t break your uterus, though.”

  “So . . . brain tumor? Nervous breakdown?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “All of the above? I really don’t know.”

  “Huh.” I leaned back in my chair. A sub was good. Maybe we’d watch more inspiring movies about people writing, and I could catch up on my sleep. I was exhausted. The night before seemed like a cruel extension of the summer, which I’d spent fitfully tossing on scratchy blankets and flipping my pillows, searching in vain for an inch of cool fabric against my sweaty face while Paris thrummed through the open windows and the baby cried in the next room and Mr. Easton tried in hushed tones to talk his wife out of throwing herself into the Seine. Sometimes in the afternoons, I’d wheel the baby’s stroller over to the Jardin du Luxembourg and park her in the sun while I stretched out along a bench or on the grass to steal a few quick minutes of precious sleep. Those afternoons were the best part of my summer, until the day one of Mrs. Easton’s expat friends, an obnoxious woman from Dallas who despite her best efforts would never pass for Parisian, found me dozing next to the peaceful baby and went into histrionics about how easy it would have been to steal the baby. I’d had an ankle hooked around the stroller, I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen. There wasn’t much point in trying to convince her that Mrs. Easton would have been happier if the baby had disappeared.

  Lacey didn’t get to class until a minute after the bell rang, but Mr. Silva just looked at her cane and waved her in. She used the cane to shove people’s backpacks aside, clearing a path for herself as she shuffled to her seat in front of mine. “Hey,” I whispered, leaning forward. “Where were you this morning? Geneva was being all —”

  She didn’t turn around. “Class is about to start.”

  I fell back in my chair, heat flooding my cheeks as if I’d been slapped. A moment later, Mr. Silva cleared his throat and said, “June 25, 1950. Anyone? Did anyone do the reading?” I spent the rest of the period fighting to stay awake, and Lacey kept her back to me the whole time.

  At lunch, Lacey was her usual bubbly self, chattering with the junior girls about homecoming plans and fundraisers and dates to the dance. I kept trying to catch her eye to ask her what was going on, why she’d been late this morning, what was the drama Jake had hinted at last night, but Lacey didn’t allow a single break in the conversation until halfway through the period, when she abruptly grabbed her cane, said something about student council, and limped away. Jake was trading insults with Randy and Chris, and Nikki was nowhere to be found, so I spent the rest of the period sitting quietly in the middle of the chaos, utterly alone in the crowd.

  When I walked into creative writing later that day, the principal was standing at the dais. “Good afternoon, Paige,” he said. “Don’t you look pretty today.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Coulter.”

  As more people trickled in, I noticed that he greeted Jake’s friends by name, but didn’t seem to know the names of the other students. “Hello there, Sandy,” he said blithely to Shanti as she walked in. Hurrying past him, she made a face in Ethan’s direction. When the bell rang, Dr. Coulter rubbed his hands togeth
er. “Students, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that Mrs. Mueller is . . . ill.”

  “Does she have a brain tumor?” someone called.

  Dr. Coulter ignored the comment. “She will likely be out for the rest of the semester.”

  Low voices rumbled through the room at this, giddy and wondering. The whole semester? Not only would we not have to hear Mrs. Mueller’s screechy voice until Christmas, but also we’d get a sub, thereby guaranteeing that we’d be doing no work for the rest of the term. Yes and yes.

  Dr. Coulter cleared his throat. “The good news is that we have already found a substitute teacher to take her place. Students, I’d like to introduce you to your new teacher, Mr. Tremont. We’re very lucky to have him here, as he is a part of the Writers’ Workshop at the university. He will be filling in for Mrs. Mueller for the rest of the semester, until she gets back on her feet.”

  The room filled with whispers as this information was digested. The Iowa Writers’ Workshop was one of the most prestigious writing programs in the whole country. Why would someone from that program want to sub at Willow Grove? People looked around, searching for the new teacher. Was he standing out in the hallway, awaiting his cue? I didn’t think I could stand that degree of cheesiness.

  But no, he was sitting in a student desk in the back corner of the room. He smiled and stood up. There were gasps and giggles from some of the girls. The new teacher was unquestionably handsome. Movie star handsome. Dressed in dark jeans and a black shirt, he was a whole different species compared to our other teachers. In the back of the room, Jake’s friends muttered to themselves, and some of the lamer girls frantically scribbled notes back and forth.

  Mr. Tremont looked around the room, still smiling agreeably. “Thanks for the introduction, Dr. Coulter.”

  The principal made his way to the door. “Okay, then. Well, good luck, and listen to your teacher, children.”

  I saw Shanti grin and roll her eyes at the Freshman. He grinned back.

  Mr. Tremont clapped his hands together, just once. “Okay, folks, open up your notebooks and let’s get started.” He spoke with an easy confidence that was almost unheard-of in new teachers. I glanced across the room toward the Freshman, remembering the way he’d mocked Mrs. Mueller. Were we finally going to have a good teacher? He caught my look and raised his eyebrows, giving a little half nod, as if to say, I know!

  Without waiting for us to comply, Mr. Tremont continued. “We’re just going to warm up with a ten-minute freewrite. Don’t edit yourself, don’t worry about how it sounds; nobody is going to read this but you.” He fiddled with a black stopwatch. “Have you guys done this before?”

  A girl in the back practically jumped out of her seat, stretching her hand to the ceiling. “No, Mr. Tremont! But it sounds like fun!”

  Oh, my God. I tucked my chin into my shoulder to keep from laughing.

  Mr. Tremont smiled, but said seriously, “If you’re here because you think that writing will always be fun, you’re in for a disappointment. Writing — real writing — is among the most difficult work you will ever face in your life. The irony is that the harder you work at it, the harder it gets.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Randy burst out.

  “If you’re not scared while you’re writing, you’re not working hard enough,” Mr. Tremont said. “You’ll be afraid, but you have to keep going.”

  I felt a shiver race up my neck. It struck me that for the first time in our lives, a teacher was giving us neither the convenient version nor the watered-down textbook version of the truth.

  “Sounds pretty gay, if you ask me,” Tyler muttered. His friends rewarded him with laughter, but Mr. Tremont wasn’t amused.

  “Out.” He pointed to the door.

  “What?” Tyler asked.

  “I didn’t even do anything, man.” He looked to his friends for confirmation, and they nodded.

  “Yeah, he didn’t do anything!”

  Mr. Tremont said calmly, “If you’re not going to take this class seriously, you may leave now. In fact, the only people who should stay are those who are prepared to work harder in this class than they do in any other.” He waited.

  Tyler looked like he was going to argue more, but then he shrugged. “Whatever, dude.” He gathered his things and walked out the door.

  More whispers from the back of the room. Mr. Tremont said, “Ten-minute timed writing. Start with I remember, and go from there. Keep your pen moving the whole time. If you get stuck, write I remember again, and follow your thoughts. Don’t worry about staying on topic; just write whatever comes to you.” He paused. “Any questions?”

  A girl in the front row raised her hand. “What should we write about?”

  “Just write whatever comes into your head,” Mr. Tremont said. “Don’t censor yourself. You can write whatever you want to. Just keep going. The point of freewriting is to write fast enough to get past the little voice in your head that says, ‘Don’t write that, it’s stupid!’ or ‘That makes no sense!’ You’re trying to outrun your editor, because that’s how you get to the good stuff, the moments of truth. If you get stuck, and I remember doesn’t work, try I see, I wish, I don’t remember . . . Whatever comes into your head, write it.”

  “Even swear words?” someone asked.

  He grinned. “It’s your writing, you guys. Follow it wherever it takes you. All you need to do is tell your truth. Get it? Everyone with me here?”

  A few people nodded.

  “Ready . . .” Mr. Tremont said. “Write.”

  I put my pen to the page, hesitantly. I remember . . .

  “Don’t think too hard,” Mr. Tremont said. “Just write.”

  I remember . . .

  I remember Lacey. I remember Lacey in seventh grade, the first time we made brownies together. I remember turning up the radio in her kitchen, singing along to the Top 40 station, screaming when our favorite song came on. I remember the day at lunch in middle school when Tyler Adams climbed up the big oak tree to get the football they’d thrown up there, and he got stuck coming back down. I remember how the janitor had to get the ladder to get him down, and how we laughed, Lacey and I, sitting against the sunny brick wall at the corner of the playground, laughing and laughing until tears ran down our cheeks and our mascara ran in black trails down our faces. I remember how we ran into the girls’ bathroom to fix it and saw Morgan Ellington in there with tweezers, trying to pull a hair out of her chin, and how we looked at each other with giant eyes and squeezed together lips and ran right back out until we could collapse by the pop machines outside the gym, laughing and laughing until we could hardly walk back to class when lunch was over.

  I remember . . . I remember her standing over me with that look on her face like she knew she had me good and she wasn’t going to drop it. When did she stop forgiving people their mistakes? We used to tell each other every secret, but one day secrets turned into weapons and now we brandish them back and forth to keep each other in check, walking along a perfect straight line, daring one another to fall.

  The stopwatch beeped loudly, and I jumped. “Okay, stop,” Mr. Tremont said. He was sitting with a yellow legal pad at the front of the room. I looked down at my notebook in amazement. I’d covered more than two pages.

  Jenna raised her hand. “Mr. Tremont?”

  “Yes?”

  “Were you writing, too?” she asked.

  “I was,” Mr. Tremont said. “It’s only fair, right?”

  Across the room, Shanti and the Freshman exchanged looks.

  Mr. Tremont stood and moved around to sit on the table. “I know I said no one would read this but you, but there’s something freeing about reading a raw draft. . . . Anyone feel like sharing?”

  “Dude, I will,” Randy said.

  “Great,” Mr. Tremont said, looking around the room. “Before you start, I’d like to remind the class that it takes a lot of guts to read your own work, so I’d ask you to be respectful of anyone who offers to read.
In order for this class to work, you have to be vulnerable and open in your writing. And in order for that to happen, we need to establish a sense of trust and safety.”

  Behind me, Brian Sorenson snorted. “Dude, Tyler was right. This class is totally gay,” he muttered, keeping his voice low enough that Mr. Tremont couldn’t hear him.

  Randy stood and cleared his throat dramatically. His friends cackled. “‘I remember this morning, when I waked and baked. I remember how fine Paige looked in that little skirt on the first day of school. She looks hot today, too. It would be awesome if her and Lacey made out, even though Lacey’s like a cripple now. I remember —’”

  “That’s enough.”

  Randy stopped, looking pleased with himself. Brian and Chris were still laughing loudly.

  “All three of you may go to the guidance counselor to get your schedules changed,” Mr. Tremont said evenly.

  “What?” Brian asked angrily.

  “Yeah man, we didn’t even do nothing!” Chris said.

  “If you’d like to discuss this further, you may see me after class,” Mr. Tremont said. His tone was neutral, his expression calm. “For now, though, I’d like you to leave.”

  The boys stood and grabbed their stuff, grumbling and muttering their way out the door.

  Mr. Tremont surveyed the room. “I said before that the point of freewriting is to get past the voice inside your head that tells you your ideas aren’t good enough, your words aren’t good enough, you’re no writer, and so forth. But getting past your internal editor is kind of pointless if you’re just going to treat your own work — or the work of your classmates — as a joke.”

  The class was quiet, and people seemed to be listening to Mr. Tremont. I saw a couple people jotting notes in notebooks, but most people kept their eyes on the teacher, nodding seriously.

  “So basically, our class motto will be the same as Google’s was, back in the day: Don’t Be Evil. If there’s anyone else who can’t work within that basic guideline, I’ll write you a pass to the guidance office. Anyone?” He surveyed the room, smiling. “Good. Let’s get to work.”