The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry

by Gabrielle Zevin

  “Someone who died?” A.J. says over dinner. “What about Daniel Parish? You were good friends with him.”

  “When I was a child,” Maya says.

  “Isn’t he why you decided to be a writer?” A.J. says.

  Maya rolls her eyes. “No.”

  “She had a crush on him when she was little,” A.J. says to Amelia.

  “Da-ad! That isn’t true.”

  “Your first literary crush is a big deal,” Amelia says. “Mine was John Irving.”

  “You lie,” A.J. says. “It was Ann M. Martin.”

  Laughing, Amelia pours herself another glass of wine. “Yeah, probably right.”

  “I’m glad you both think this is so funny,” Maya says. “I’m probably going to fail and then I’ll probably end up just like my mother.” She stands up from the table and runs to her room. Their apartment is not built for dramatic exits, and she bangs her knee on a bookshelf. “This place is too small,” she says.

  She stalks into her room and slams the door.

  “Should I go after her?” A.J. whispers.

  “No. She needs space. She’s a teenage girl. Let her stew for a bit.”

  “Maybe she’s right,” A.J. says. “This place is too small.”

  They have been browsing houses online for as long as they’ve been married. Now that Maya is a teenager, the attic apartment with its one bathroom has shrunk exponentially, magically. Half the time, A.J. finds himself using the public store bathroom to avoid competing with Maya and Amelia. Customers are more civilized than these two. Besides, business has been good (or at least stable), and if they moved, he could use the apartment for an expanded Children’s section with a story-time area, or maybe gifts and greeting cards.

  In their price range on Alice Island, all the houses are starter homes, though A.J. feels like he is past the starter home age of his life. Weird kitchens and floorplans, too-small rooms, ominous references to foundation issues. Until the housing search began, A.J. could count on one hand the number of times he had thought about Tamerlane with any sort of regret.

  Later that night, Maya finds a slip of paper under her door:

  Maya,

  If you’re stuck, reading helps:

  “The Beauties” by Anton Chekhov, “The Doll’s House” by Katherine Mansfield, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” by J. D. Salinger, “Brownies” or “Drinking Coffee Elsewhere” both by ZZ Packer, “In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried” by Amy Hempel, “Fat” by Raymond Carver, “Indian Camp” by Ernest Hemingway.

  We should have them all downstairs. Just ask if you can’t find anything, though you know where everything is better than I.

  Love,

  Dad

  She stuffs the list in her pocket and walks downstairs, where the store is closed for the night. She spins the bookmark carousel—Why, hello there, carousel!—and makes a sharp right turn into Adult Fiction.

  MAYA IS NERVOUS and a little excited when she hands the story to Mr. Balboni.

  “ ‘A Trip to the Beach,’ ” he says, reading the title.

  “It’s from the point of view of sand,” Maya says. “It’s winter on Alice, and the sand misses the tourists.”

  Mr. Balboni shifts, and his tight, black leather pants squeak. He encourages them to emphasize the positive while at the same time reading with a critical and ideally informed eye. “Well, that sounds like it has evocative description already.”

  “I’m kidding, Mr. Balboni. I’m trying to move away from anthropomorphizing.”

  “I’ll look forward to reading it,” Mr. Balboni says.

  The next week, Mr. Balboni announces that he’s going to read a story aloud, and everyone sits up a little straighter. It is exciting to be chosen even if it means being criticized. It is exciting to be criticized.

  “What do we think?” he asks the class when he’s finished.

  “Well,” Sarah Pipp says, “no offense, but the dialogue is kind of bad. Like, I get what the person is going for, but why doesn’t the writer use contractions more?” Sarah Pipp reviews books for her blog, The Paisley Unicorn Book Review. She is always bragging about the free books she gets from publishers. “And why third person? Why present tense? It makes the writing seem childish to me.”

  Billy Lieberman, who writes about wronged boy heroes who overcome supernatural and parental obstacles, says, “I don’t even get what’s supposed to have happened at the end? It’s confusing.”

  “I think it’s ambiguous,” Mr. Balboni says. “Remember last week when we talked about ambiguity?”

  Maggie Markakis, who is only in this elective because of a scheduling conflict involving math and debate, says she likes it, though she notes discrepancies in the financial elements of the stories.

  Abner Shochet objects on multiple fronts: he doesn’t like stories in which characters lie (“I am so done with unreliable narrators”—the concept had been introduced to them two weeks ago), and worse, he thinks nothing happens. This doesn’t hurt Maya’s feelings because all of Abner’s stories end with the same twist: that everything had been a dream.

  “Is there anything we liked about it?” Mr. Balboni asks.

  “The grammar,” Sarah Pipp says.

  John Furness says, “I liked how sad it was.” John has long brown eyelashes and a pop idol pompadour. He wrote a story about his grandmother’s hands that moved even hard-hearted Sarah Pipp to tears.

  “Me too,” Mr. Balboni says. “As a reader, I responded to many of the things that you all objected to. I liked the somewhat formal style and the ambiguity. I disagree with the comment about the ‘unreliable narrators’—we may have to go over this concept again. I don’t believe the financial elements were handled badly either. All things considered, I think this, along with John’s story, ‘My Grandmother’s Hands,’ are the two best stories from class this semester, and they will be the Alicetown High School entries to the county story contest.”

  Abner groans. “You didn’t say who wrote the other one.”

  “Right, of course. It’s Maya. Round of applause for John and Maya.”

  Maya tries not to look too pleased with herself.

  “THAT’S AMAZING, RIGHT? Mr. Balboni picking us,” John says after class. He is following her to her locker, though Maya cannot say why.

  “Yeah,” says Maya. “I liked your story.” She had liked his story, but she really wants to win. First prize is a $150 gift certificate to Amazon and a trophy.

  “What would you buy if you won?” John asks.

  “Not books. I have those from my dad.”

  “You’re lucky,” John says. “I wish I lived in the bookstore.”

  “I live above it, not in it, and it’s not that great.”

  “I bet it is.”

  He sweeps his brown hair out of his eyes. “My mom wants to know if you want to carpool to the ceremony.”

  “But we just found out today,” Maya says.

  “I know my mom. She always likes to carpool. Ask your dad.”

  “The thing is, my dad will want to go, and he doesn’t drive. So probably, Dad’ll get my godmother or my godfather to drive us. And your mom will want to go, too. So I’m not sure if carpooling makes sense.” She feels like she’s been talking for about a half hour.

  He smiles at her, which makes his pompadour bounce a little. “No problem. Maybe we could drive you somewhere else sometime?”

  THE AWARD CEREMONY is held at a high school in Hyannis. Though it’s just a gymnasium (the scent of balls of both varieties is still palpable) and the ceremony hasn’t started yet, everyone speaks in hushed tones, like it’s church. Something important and literary is about to happen here.

  Of the forty entries from the twenty high schools, only the top three stories will be read aloud. Maya has practiced reading her story for John Furness. He recommended that she breathe more and slow down. She has been practicing breathing and reading, which are not as easy to do as one might think. She had listened to him read, too. Her advice to him wa
s to use his normal voice. He had been doing this fake-y, newscaster thing. “You know you love it,” he had said. Now he talks to her in the fake voice all the time. It’s so annoying.

  Maya sees Mr. Balboni talking to a person who can only be a teacher from another school. She is wearing teacher clothes—a floral dress and a beige cardigan with snowflakes embroidered on it, and she is nodding adamantly at whatever Mr. Balboni is saying. Of course, Mr. Balboni is wearing his leather pants, and because he is out, a leather jacket—basically, a leather suit. Maya wants to take him to meet her father, because she wants A.J. to hear Mr. Balboni praise her. The balance is that she doesn’t want A.J. to be embarrassing. She had introduced A.J. to her English teacher, Mrs. Smythe, at the store last month, and A.J. had pressed a book into the teacher’s hands saying, “You’ll love this novel. It’s exquisitely erotic.” Maya had wanted to die.

  A.J. is wearing a tie, and Maya jeans. She had put on a dress that Amelia had chosen for her but decided that the dress made it seem like she cared too much. Amelia, who is in Providence this week, is meeting them there, but she’ll probably run late. Maya knows she’ll be sad about the dress.

  A baton is tapped on the podium. The teacher in the snowflake sweater welcomes them to the Island County High School Short-Story Contest. She praises the entries for having been a particularly diverse and moving group. She says she loves her job and wishes everyone could win, and then she announces the first finalist.

  Of course, John Furness would be a finalist. Maya sits back in her chair and listens. The story is better than she remembers. She likes the description of the grandmother’s hands like tissue paper. She looks at A.J. to see how it is playing with him. He has a distant look in the eyes, which Maya recognizes as boredom.

  The second story is by Virgina Kim from Blackheart High. “The Journey” is about an adopted child from China. A.J. nods a couple of times. She can tell he likes the story better than “My Grandmother’s Hands.”

  Maya is starting to worry that she won’t be picked at all. She is glad she wore jeans. She turns around to look for the quickest way out. Amelia is standing by the door of the auditorium. She gives Maya a thumbs-up sign. “The dress. What happened to the dress?” Amelia mouths.

  Maya shrugs, turns back to listen to “The Journey.” Virginia Kim wears a black velvet dress with a white Peter Pan collar. She reads in a very soft voice, barely more than a whisper at times. It’s as if she wants everyone to have to lean in to listen.

  Unfortunately, “The Journey” is endless, five times as long as “My Grandmother’s Hands,” and after a while, Maya stops listening. Maya guesses it probably takes less time to fly to China.

  If “A Trip to the Beach” isn’t top three, there will be T-shirts and cookies at the reception. But who wants to stay for the reception if you don’t at least place.

  If she places, she won’t be mad that she didn’t win.

  If John Furness wins, she will try not to hate him.

  If Maya wins, maybe she will donate the gift certificate to charity. To, like, underprivileged kids or orphanages.

  If she loses, it will be okay. She didn’t write the story to win a prize or even complete an assignment. If she’d wanted to complete the assignment, she could have written about Puddleglum. Creative writing is graded pass/fail.

  The third story is announced, and Maya grabs A.J.’s hand.

  A Perfect Day for Bananafish

  1948 / J. D. Salinger

  If something is good and universally acknowledged to be so, this is not reason enough to dislike it. (Side note: It has taken me all afternoon to write this sentence. My brain kept making hash of the phrase “universally acknowledged.”)

  “A Trip to the Beach,” your entry for the county short-story contest, reminds me a bit of Salinger’s story. I mention this because I think you should have won first place. The first-place entry, which I believe was titled “My Grandmother’s Hands,” was much simpler both formally, narratively, and certainly emotionally than yours. Take heart, Maya. As a bookseller, I assure you that prizewinning can be somewhat important for sales but rarely matters much in terms of quality.

  —A.J.F.

  P.S. The thing I find most promising about your short story is that it shows empathy. Why do people do what they do? This is the hallmark of great writing.

  P.P.S. If I have a criticism, perhaps it’s that you might have introduced the swimming element earlier.

  P.P.P.S. Also, readers will know what an ATM card is.

  A Trip to the Beach

  By Maya Tamerlane Fikry

  Teacher: Edward Balboni, Alicetown High School

  Grade 9

  Mary is running late. She has a private room, but she shares the bathroom with six other people, and it seems like someone is always using it. When she gets back from the bathroom, the babysitter is sitting on her bed. “Mary, I have been waiting for you for five minutes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mary says. “I wanted to take a shower, but I couldn’t get in.”

  “It is already eleven,” the babysitter says. “You’ve only paid me to be here until noon, and I have somewhere I need to be at 12:15 p.m. So you better not be late getting back.”

  Mary thanks the babysitter. She kisses the baby on the head. “Be good,” she says.

  Mary runs across the campus to the English department. She runs up the stairs. Her teacher is already leaving by the time she gets there. “Mary. I was just about to leave. I didn’t think you were going to show. Please come in.”

  Mary goes into the office. The teacher takes out Mary’s homework and sets it on the desk. “Mary,” the teacher says. “You used to get straight A’s, and now you are failing all of your classes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mary says. “I’ll try to do better.”

  “Is something happening in your life?” the teacher asks. “You used to be one of our best students.”

  “No,” Mary says. She bites her lip.

  “You have a scholarship to this college. You are already in trouble because your grades have been bad for a while, and when I tell the college, they will probably end your scholarship or at least make you leave for some time.”

  “Please don’t do that!” Mary begs. “I don’t have anywhere I can go. The only money I have is my scholarship money.”

  “It is for your own good, Mary. You should go home and sort yourself out. Christmas is in a couple of weeks. Your parents will understand.”

  Mary is fifteen minutes late getting back to the dorm. The babysitter is frowning when Mary gets there. “Mary,” the babysitter says. “You are late once again! When you’re late, it makes me late for the things I have to do. I’m sorry. I really like the baby, but I don’t think I can babysit for you anymore.”

  Mary takes the baby from the babysitter. “Okay,” she says.

  “Also,” the babysitter adds, “you owe me for the last three times I babysat. It’s ten dollars an hour so that’s thirty dollars.”

  “Can I pay you next time?” Mary asks. “I meant to go to the automated teller machine (ATM) on my way back, but I didn’t have time.”

  The babysitter makes a face. “Just put it in an envelope with my name on it and leave it at my dorm. I would really like the money before Christmas. I have presents to buy.”

  Mary agrees.

  “Bye, little baby,” the babysitter says. “Have a great Christmas.”

  The baby coos.

  “Do you two have anything special planned for the holidays?” the babysitter asks.

  “I’ll probably take her to see my mom. She lives in Greenwich, Connecticut. She always has a big Christmas tree, and she makes a delicious dinner, and there will be tons of presents for me and for Myra.”

  “That sounds really nice,” the babysitter says.

  Mary puts the baby in the baby sling, and she walks to the bank. She checks the balance on her ATM card. She has $75.17 in her checking account. She takes out forty dollars and then she goes inside to get change
.

  She puts thirty dollars in an envelope with the babysitter’s name on it. She buys a token for the subway and rides to the last stop on the train. The neighborhood is not as nice as the neighborhood where Mary’s college is.

  Mary walks down the street. She comes to a rundown house with a chain-link fence out front. There is a dog tied to a post in the yard. It barks at the baby, and the baby starts to cry.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” Mary says. “The dog can’t get you.”

  They go inside the house. The house is very dirty and there are kids everywhere. The kids are dirty, too. The kids are noisy and all different ages. Some of them are in wheelchairs or disabled.

  “Hi, Mary,” a disabled girl says. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to see Mama,” Mary says.

  “She is upstairs. She is not feeling well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mary, is that your baby?” the disabled girl asks.

  “No,” Mary says. She bites her lip. “I’m just watching it for a friend.”

  “How is Harvard?” the disabled girl asks.

  “Great,” Mary says.

  “Bet you got all A’s.”

  Mary shrugs.

  “You are so modest, Mary. Still swimming on the swim team?”

  Mary shrugs again. She walks up the stairs to see Mama.

  Mama is a morbidly obese white woman. Mary is a skinny black girl. Mama cannot be Mary’s biological mother.

  “Hi, Mama,” Mary says. “Merry Christmas.” Mary kisses the fat woman on the cheek.

  “Hi, Mary. Miss Ivy Leaguer. Didn’t expect to see you back here at your foster home.”

  “No.”

  “Is that your baby?” Mama asks.

  Mary sighs. “Yes.”

  “What a shame,” Mama says. “Smart girl like you, messing up her life. Didn’t I tell you to never have sex? Didn’t I tell you to always use protection?”